


Outnumbered

by heartofcathedrals



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Diabetes, Diabetic Peter Parker, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, High blood sugar, Irondad, Low Blood Sugar, Parent Tony Stark, Sickfic, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, spiderson, type one diabetes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24579454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofcathedrals/pseuds/heartofcathedrals
Summary: “Kid,” Tony whispers from his place in the line of groomsmen, kicking his heel softly. “You okay?”“Y-yeah,” he whispers, not wanting to take the attention on the altar away from May.May’s always made everything about Peter. Always. And that fact only intensified after his type one diabetes diagnosis three months ago.But today? Today is about May. About Happy. About the two of them choosing each other and being happy together, and Peter has done everything he can think of to keep his diabetes and his tendency to be an absolute klutz from interfering with that fact.“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride,” the officiant announces, the small crowd cheering as May and Happy kiss. Peter smiles and claps, feels his body sway a bit and blinks his eyes as he steadies himself.He’s fine.Dexcom says he’s fine.He's fine.The second the wedding party enters the coolness of the air-conditioned venue, he grabs a glass of water, but it shakes in his hand, splashes a bit on the floor.For what isn’t a blood sugar issue, this sure as hell feels like one.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, irondad - Relationship, spiderson - Relationship
Comments: 438
Kudos: 631





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To my lovely readers: This story is extremely personal to me for many reasons. My intent with this story is not necessarily to solely provide entertainment, but rather to ultimately serve as a therapeutic outlet for both myself and my readers. That being said, this story will have a running theme regarding chronic illness, and yes it will be recurring, because in reality chronic illness never actually goes away. My hope is that if you decide to take this journey with me, you will take that into consideration before commenting. This fic is also nearly completed and therefore I am not looking for plot suggestions at this time. Thank you for taking the time to read this note and I hope you enjoy the story!

It’s boiling outside.

Like, why am I wearing a navy tuxedo during May in hot, humid, Long Island weather, boiling.

Peter tugs at the collar of his shirt, feels sweat rolling down his back. May had promised everyone the wedding ceremony would only take fifteen minutes, tops, but he hadn’t factored in walking her down the aisle, for the officiant to go so slowly and make so many jokes along the way. They’re closing in on thirty minutes and he wonders, briefly, if his blood sugar is dropping, if the heat and the nerves and panic about not losing the damn rings are working against him.

He glances at his StarkWatch and sees that his Dexcom continuous glucose monitor is reading 142. He exhales slowly, confident that his blood sugar is not the issue.

It doesn’t change the fact that it’s boiling, though.

Or that he feels a little… _swimmy_.

Is that a word?

“Kid,” Tony whispers from his place in the line of groomsmen, kicking his heel softly. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” he whispers, not wanting to take the attention on the altar away from May.

May’s always made everything about Peter. _Always_. And that fact only intensified after his type one diabetes diagnosis three months ago.

But today? Today is about May. About Happy. About the two of them choosing each other and being happy _together_ , and Peter has done everything he can think of to keep his diabetes and his tendency to be an absolute klutz from interfering with that fact.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride,” the officiant announces, the small crowd cheering as May and Happy kiss. Peter smiles and claps, feels his body sway a bit and blinks his eyes as he steadies himself.

He’s fine.

Dexcom says he’s fine.

_He’s fine._

The second the wedding party enters the coolness of the air-conditioned venue, Peter shimmies out of his suit jacket and tosses it on a chair in the cocktail hour room. He grabs a glass of water, but it shakes in his hand, splashes a bit on the floor.

For what isn’t a blood sugar issue, this sure as hell feels like one.

“Test, kiddo. There’s no way you’re in the 140s,” Tony says, a hand on his shoulder. Peter knows Tony has access to his Dexcom data, that he, along with Pepper, May, and Happy, can pull it up on his phone and watch. “You’re sweating through your dress shirt,” he whispers, grabbing Peter’s jacket and leading him out of the cocktail hour and up the stairs toward the privacy of the bridal suite. He deposits him on the couch, which Peter is half grumpy about, half thankful for, because the room is starting to spin a little, and hands him his kit.

Peter’s hands shake as he wipes with the alcohol swab, readies the strip, and pricks his finger.

The meter beeps.

_52._

Too low.

“Fuck.”

“Let’s see what we’ve got in here,” Tony says after seeing the number, opening the mini fridge beneath the wet bar. “Orange juice, Dr. Pepper, Coke, Stella Artois–”

“Stella.”

“Funny, kid. You’re not 21, _and_ it’ll make you drop more, even with the carbs.”

“Dr. Pepper.” He leans back on the couch, closes his eyes, and wills the spinning to stop.

Tony pops the tab on the soda and grabs a straw. “FRIDAY, calibrate Peter’s Dexcom to 52 milligrams per deciliter.”

“Of course, sir. Calibration complete,” Tony’s watch replies.

His Dexcom readings affect his pump. Tony refers to these moments where his sensor is off by a wide margin as _garbage in, garbage out_ ; without accurate readings, his pump doesn’t suspend insulin when it should. Peter shudders at the thought that he’d been getting insulin during the wedding even though he was dropping.

He hates this fucking disease.

Peter leans forward and goes to take the open soda from Tony, attempts to grip the can and get the straw between his lips, but his hand shakes again and the straw spins away from him. Tony grabs the full can just as it’s about to tumble to the floor.

“Underoos,” Tony comments with a sigh, guiding the can and straw to Peter’s lips.

He sips and sips, the carbonation making him feel nauseated. He _really_ doesn’t want to throw up right now. “I feel like crap,” he admits when he lets the straw go.

“You were swaying during the ceremony.”

“Couldn’t tell what was going on because it was _so hot_.”

“Thought you were in the 160s when we started but you must’ve been way lower. Heat probably made you drop, too.”

“Was nervous,” Peter adds. “Thought I might lose the rings.”

“Shit, we didn’t pause your basal,” Tony says, referring to the continuous dose of insulin Peter’s getting in the background. He unclips Peter’s pump from his waistband with his free hand, careful not to pull on the tubing connecting the pump to a cannula site on Peter’s abdomen.

“Leave it. Don’t wanna go _too_ high.”

“Yeah, and I want you to _come up_. You’re still making some insulin. Can’t have you hitting rock bottom at Aunt Hottie’s wedding.” Tony’s referencing Peter’s ‘honeymoon’ period; because he’s only newly diagnosed, his pancreas is still producing insulin in spurts. Combined with the fact that he’s pumping insulin, it’s created the perfect storm of sudden, stubborn lows that don’t like to come back up.

“Hate this,” Peter says with a groan before taking another sip. His hands are less shaky, a lot more stable now, and he’s able to get the straw to his lips by himself.

“Looks like Basal-IQ took over and lowered your basal automatically on your pump once we calibrated,” Tony comments as he clicks through the screen on Peter’s insulin pump, pleased with the recently upgraded technology. “Keep forgetting we did that update. So used to manually correcting and suspending insulin.”

“May said the same thing yesterday,” Peter comments, because this has been happening _a lot_ , is not the first time in the last few days that he’s dropped so quickly.

“Think you’re coming up? Dex says you’re 72 and rising,” he says, reading the teen’s pump, which acts as a Dexcom receiver. “You trust it?”

“How long have we been up here?” Peter asks.

“About 15 minutes. You wanna test?” Tony reclips Peter’s pump to his waistband.

“Y-yeah,” Peter says, repeating the process from earlier. The meter beeps. 75. “Close enough.”

“Daddy!” Morgan yells excitedly as she bounds up the stairs, Peter squinting at the shrillness of her voice; he loves Morgan, but his Spidey senses go haywire when his blood sugar is off and her voice is _piercing_.

“Shh,” Tony coos as she enters the room, reaching his arms out to pull his five-year-old into his lap. Her pink, fluffy flower girl dress puffs around her as she sits.

“Is Petey okay?” she asks, burrowing into Tony’s chest.

“Yeah, baby. His blood sugar’s a little low, but he’s okay.”

“Did Daddy give you candy?” she asks sweetly.

Peter puts the can on the side table and laughs. “Yes, Mo, _all the candy_ ,” he jokes.

“No fair!” she pouts.

“Hey, guess what?” Peter says to get Morgan’s attention. He’s feeling better, though there’s the lingering fuzziness at the edges of his vision, the kind that leaves him feeling foggy for a good hour or so after he’s really low.

She brushes her hair out of her face and focuses on him. “What?”

“I saw some cupcakes downstairs at the cocktail hour. Pink ones with _sprinkles_.”

“Ooh!” she says, clapping happily, looking up at Tony. “Can we go, Daddy? I want a cupcake!”

Tony looks Peter over, and Peter tilts his head, has a wordless conversation with his eyes to convince him he’s _fine_. He’s had most of a Dr. Pepper, is almost in the 80s.

“Alright, let’s go get one before they’re all gone,” Tony says, Morgan up and off his lap in an instant. “No running down the stairs!” he yells after her. “Wait at the top, baby!” He grabs the can and scraps from testing, tossing it all. “Take it easy,” he warns as Peter slowly rises from the couch. “You’re still coming up. Don’t want a repeat of Easter.”

Peter winces as his Easter low flashes through his mind. He’d only had his pump for two weeks at that point, had only been diagnosed for about three weeks. It had been tricky figuring out carb counts while factoring in his honeymooning. After going low and coming back up on repeat, he’d finally overdone it by taking insulin for what he didn’t realize was a sugar-free candy egg. He’d hit his lowest, 36, as he’d gotten up from the floor where he’d been playing with Morgan, had collapsed like an accordion and bashed his head on the living room coffee table.

Peter had acted angry, but on the inside, he’d been scared shitless by the incident, hadn’t realized how low he could actually go. Truth be told, he’s still somewhat panicky when he drops, worries he might close his eyes and not wake up. He rubs absently at the scar hidden beneath tufts of brown hair on the side of his head as Tony grabs the teen’s suit jacket.

“Daddy! _Cupcakes_!” Morgan yells from the hallway.

x

Peter feels like he might pass out.

Not feels, is _sure_ , this time.

He bites his lip and lets May pull him to the center of the dance floor, just the two of them. It’s quiet as he puts one hand on her shoulder and the other on the small of her back, just like they practiced, tries to keep the baked ziti he scarfed down during the first course from coming back up. He hates the attention, the lights and cameras focused on them, but he knows he has to do this. _For May_. It’s what she wanted, one of the few things she asked of him today.

“You look… _gorgeous_.” He’s said it so many times today, but with the lights glinting off of the beading on the bodice of her dress and the bottom, flowy and grazing the floor, he can’t help but say it again. She smiles, but he can see that her eyes are glistening. He knows that today wasn’t easy for her, that Ben has been on both of their minds. She’d cried to Peter a week ago, worried that Ben would never forgive her for this, but Peter knows that he would, that Happy is _exactly_ the kind of guy Ben would want for her. He’d held her on the couch, let her cry into _his_ chest for a change, and tried not to let his emotions get the best of him at the time.

A few bars of music play, but it’s definitely not “She’s Got A Way,” like he expected. His eyebrows knit and he plasters a fake smile on his face as he tries to make sense of what song this is. It sounds familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it. “What happened to Billy Joel?” Peter asks as they start to sway playfully to the upbeat tempo.

May smiles and winks, starts to mouth “Never Gonna Give You Up” with exaggeration. “Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you…”

“Did you just…Rick Roll me… _at your own wedding_?” Peter asks, laughing with his whole body. They let go and jam out as May waves for everyone to join them on the dance floor.

“I knew you were nervous, so I planned this instead. And I _may have_ Rick Rolled you, but I mean every word, Peter. My marrying Happy doesn’t change anything between you and me. You know that, right?”

A lump forms in Peter’s throat as he nods and wraps her into a tight hug. “I know. I love you May.”

“I love you too, baby.” She keeps him there for a moment, rubs his back like she always does when they do something difficult together. A tear slides down his face and he wipes it away quickly, hoping the photographers and videographers haven’t caught it. When he finally pulls away, he can see that May is wiping away tears, too. They both laugh, get back into the song with, “Never gonna give, never gonna give!”

Tony shimmies over, does his signature vogue move with his hands around his face, which has Peter nearly doubled over from laughter. Happy joins in, nods toward Peter as if asking if he can take over dancing with May. With a grin on his face, he hands May’s hand over and gives a nod back, backing away to join the Starks for a little dancing.

x

Peter thought he was fine with all of this.

With Happy and May looking so blissful, with the service and reception being everything he would have wished for May. Watching them take their first dance and laugh candidly as they shoved cake in each other’s mouths had assured Peter that Happy would take care of her in all of the ways Peter couldn’t.

He’d _meant it_ when he promised her that Ben would want this for her.

Peter _loves_ Happy.

Happy is not the issue.

_Peter_ is the issue.

It’s Peter and his stupid Parker luck. It’s his penchant for losing parent figures and trying to do the right thing but always fucking it up anyway. It’s the fact that May has sacrificed _everything_ in her life for him, giving up medical school to raise him after his parents had died. It’s that he still feels responsible for Ben’s death, even though he knows it was an accident and May has always assured him of that. He wants to give May and Happy the space they deserve, the _life_ they deserve, the one he wished he could have given May and Ben.

It’s why he felt that staying with Tony and Pepper for the next year was the best gift he could give her. That, and the Starks had their hands full with Morgan, needed someone who could babysit in the evenings or on weekends. He’s spent his entire life being an only child, and having Morgan as a sister brings him joy he never expected to have.

He’d been okay with all of this. _All of it._

But then May’s cousin Carol had patted Peter on the shoulder and assured him that Happy wasn’t replacing him in May’s life, _could never_ , and Peter had felt his chest ripping open at the thought, felt his breath catch in his throat as he nodded just to appease her.

It’s never going to be just May and Peter ever again, he realizes, and he doesn’t know how he hasn’t thought about that until _just now_.

“It’s just you and me, kiddo,” May always said, and then two hours ago, she’d assured him that Happy wouldn’t come between them, but…how could things _not_ change?

The thought stings, makes Peter’s heart heavy.

He feels selfish for his tears. Nothing has gone wrong, _not really_ , and yet he’s outside and alone, sniffling as he leans over a railing and takes in the dusk spreading across the Long Island Sound.

“Kid,” he hears Tony call out behind him, but he can’t get himself to turn and face him, not with his face red and tear strewn. He sniffles and tries to wipe the evidence from his cheeks, but it’s no use. “Hey,” Tony says softly, a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“Do I look okay?” Peter asks quietly, unable to see through his tears.

“I thought this would happen at some point. Come here,” Tony comments with an understanding sigh, pulling Peter from the railing and wrapping him in a hug.

Peter gives in. He can’t stop _crying_ , and it’s embarrassing. As much as he tries to hold it all in, he can’t. “It’s not gonna be just May and me anymore,” he sobs.

May, who always cooked up tomato soup and grilled cheese when he had a cold, made back-to-school shopping feel like a million bucks even if it was only for a pair of sneakers and some jeans at Kmart. May, who flipped chocolate chip pancakes for his birthday every year without fail and pushed him to apply to Midtown even though his grades had slipped after Ben died. May, who’d spent countless hours patiently teaching him how to do this whole diabetes thing without making him feel like none of his questions or anxieties were too stupid.

“You know, sometimes the brain likes to avoid acknowledging the truth until it can’t avoid it any longer. I think you hit that point tonight, Underoos. And it’s okay. It’s normal. As much as it hurts, it’s part of growing up.”

“She’s all I have,” he says, sniffling.

“You know that’s not true, Pete,” Tony reminds him.

“I know, but I can’t…how am I supposed to…”

“You let it sit for a little and then you go back to the party when you’re ready.”

“What if I’m never ready?!”

Tony chuckles softly and ruffles his curls. “You will be. Take your time. I’ll stay with you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Tony’s hands shake as he attempts to unbuckle a sleeping Morgan from her booster seat. It’s nearly two in the morning and they’re finally back at the Tower after a two-hour car ride home from the wedding. Peter watches as Tony’s right hand gives out, bites his lip when Tony backs out of the Suburban, closes his eyes, and sighs in frustration on the sidewalk.

“Honey?” Pepper calls out as she exits from the other side of the vehicle. Peter can hear her heels clacking on the pavement, watches her wobble, one hand keeping her steady on the SUV, as she joins them. Tony lets her clutch onto his left arm as she pulls her heels off. “I’m still a little tipsy.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got her,” Peter offers despite his own fatigue, leaning into the SUV and unclipping the harness with one click. He pulls Morgan into his arms, her legs immediately wrapping around his waist. She whines, Peter adjusting his grip when they’re both upright again.

“Thanks, kid,” Tony says, ruffling his hair as they enter the lobby. “Appreciate it.”

All Peter can think about is getting to bed when the mission alarm blares throughout the Tower.

“I’m getting way too old for this crap,” Tony mumbles, holding the elevator door for Peter and Morgan before helping Pepper stay upright. “Iron Man’s sitting this one out. And I suggest Spiderman does, too.”

“Tony, come on!” Peter argues in response, shifting Morgan so that she’s settled on his left hip.

“You’ve been up for almost a full twenty-four hours. You’re exhausted even if you think you’re not, even if you lie and _say_ you’re not. I’m watching your eyelids droop before my very eyes. It’s a level one,” he explains, checking his watch. “They only need one or two of us. Looks like Cap and Natasha already checked in.”

Peter scoffs. _At least he didn’t bring up my blood sugar_ , he thinks.

“Can’t fool me, kid. I know you too well. And,” he adds, tapping at his watch, “you’re only 96. No suiting up unless you’re–”

“160, I know. Stupid rule, by the way.” Peter does a shitty job of hiding his irritation, and his fatigue, is having trouble keeping Morgan, who won’t stop squirming despite being so sleepy, in his arms.

“Stupid rules keep you safe,” Tony posits as they reach the residence. “Do you need me to read you the riot act again? I’m kind of ready to pass out right here in this elevator, but I think I can muster up the energy–“

Peter shakes his head, exists first and heads toward Morgan’s room to put her down. “I got it!” he whines. “No mission tonight! Loud and clear!”

“I’ll check on her once I get this one to bed. Night, Spider Brat!” Tony teases as he offers his arm to Pepper again.

Peter knows that Tony’s one of his guardians and all, but sometimes, he gets thrown off by having someone other than May tell him what he can and can’t do. He generally avoids conflict with his stellar grades and penchant for good deeds, but Spiderman, and now Spidermanning _with_ his diabetes, always seems to bring out the more authoritative side of Tony and Peter despises it. He understands, he does, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it.

In the last few months, he’s been resigned to light patrols and, at max, level three missions. And then his blood sugar is usually either too high or too low, or Tony’s not in any shape to go, and so he has to stay behind, too. At first, when this was all brand new and he didn’t have his pump yet, he was glad for the excuse to not go, scared of what could happen because he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that _this_ was his life now and there were so many unknowns, but lately, he’s been itching to get back out as much as possible, just wants carefree nights of swinging until he’s nearly out of web fluid, his legs dangling from a rooftop while he polishes off a cheeseburger or churro and details the patrol on his StarkWatch. 

He wants Before back.

Because now?

Now it’s Tony checking in every hour on the hour through his AI Karen, Dexcom and pump alerts because he’s always dropping when he swings and, most recently, a shattered insulin pump screen after pulling it a bit too eagerly from his suit. Maybe he’d used a little too much Spidey force, or it was already loose enough in the pocket Tony had added beneath his chest plate, but it had come flying out with surprising speed, painfully taking his pump site on his abdomen with it. He watched in horror as it left his hands, fell two stories, and smashed against the pavement.

Not one of his finer moments, but it had solidified his frustration at the fact that even his gig as Spiderman, as a superhero, wasn’t sacred and spared from the monster now invading every nook and cranny of his life.

The incident had earned him a scalding speech about responsibility from May, who had promptly ordered him a new one with a sleek black case and handed it to him with a copy of the $7,000 bill.

It’s the only time since this whole diabetes thing started that she’d raised her voice at him. Peter could feel the panic of their past money insecurities in the way her voice wavered, her hands animated as he listened and hung his head in shame.

Of course, the bill was all for show. Tony had already covered it, winking as he cited his made-up “Stark Industries Health Insurance” that “all of the Avengers are automatically enrolled in,” blah blah blah, but it hadn’t made Peter feel any better about the situation.

He hates that it costs so much to keep him alive from a disease he never asked nor wished for. Between the pump, pump site infusion sets, Dexcom sensors and transmitters, test strips, and myriad of insulin in the fridge, he knows he’s costing Tony and May _at least_ $10,000 a year extra, if not more, that it doesn’t count his stint in MedBay for the days post-diagnosis, nor those for his severe lows that have caused him to pass out.

He looks down at Morgan, who he’s tucked in beneath her pink unicorn comforter, party dress and all, and wishes he was little again. There’s a spattering of dim, slowly moving star projections painting her walls and ceiling in the darkness that remind him of the glow in the dark plastic galaxy his parents had decorated his childhood bedroom with.

He still has a few memories of them, of their yellow house in Oceanside with the red door.

He was only four when they died, a year younger than Morgan is now.

He wishes he could have done a better job shielding her from everything with Tony’s recovery from the infinity stones, knows that it’s affected her in more ways than one.

The nightmares that have plagued her the last year are a bit too nostalgic, give him a sense of what May and Ben went through after he came to live with them in Forest Hills.

Maybe that’s why he’s so gentle with her, so eager to drop what he’s doing to play Monopoly Junior or read her a book, distract her with the promise of pink cupcakes with sprinkles when her face flashes with fear.

May and Ben did those things with Peter to bring him back to normalcy, to the family he had left.

Morgan waking Peter up in the middle of the night has been going on for almost a year now, since Thanos was defeated at the price of Tony’s health. After the stones had done their damage, it had been months of surgeries, skin and muscle grafts, mostly, and rehabilitation. At first, they’d expected Tony to lose his right arm completely, but Shuri had offered her Wakandan knowledge and technology, which far surpassed that of SHIELD. Though on the outside it seems that Tony has made a miraculous recovery, he’s only regained some movement and dexterity back. Peter knows that Tony is often up late and working in his lab due to painsomnia from the nerve damage suffered, that he has a hard time with jars, doorknobs, buttons, and zippers on his right side, that he plays it off by claiming to be ambidextrous (he’s not). The Iron Man suit compensates for some of his resulting muscle weakness, which is why he keeps his situation quiet. Peter remembers Tony mumbling, “Not their business,” when Pepper made the suggestion that he talk publicly about his experience while in the kitchen a few weeks ago. “And I’m _not_ about to be some kind of inspiration porn. That shit is toxic.” 

He’d never heard the phrase before, so he’d looked it up, stumbled across a YouTube video of a woman named Stella Young saying, “Inspiration porn is an image of a person with a disability, often a kid, doing something completely ordinary—like playing, or talking, or running—carrying a caption like ‘your excuse is invalid’… It’s there so that non-disabled people can put their worries into perspective… It’s there so that non-disabled people can look at us and think ‘Well, it could be worse… I could be that person.’”

“Sometimes,” Tony had said with a dejected sigh in the lab a few weeks later, “I think that typing code will be easier than speaking it, so I sit down and start to type, but then that becomes laborious and my hand gives out, so I do this hybrid talking/typing with my left hand, but then it sucks up my brain power, so I’m back at square one with the talking and having to type anyway to fix or update FRIDAY’s damn coding.”

“Isn’t FRIDAY supposed to make things easier?” Peter had asked. “Like, shouldn’t she and the robot arm make everything more…”

“Accessible. Yes. But it’s still arduous and frustrating at times. They don’t actually make it _easier_ , not all of the time, just makes things doable-ish. It’s like your pump. The site and cartridge changes, the Dexcom insertions and warm-ups, calculating a bolus? It all takes time and energy. In some respects, it makes it easier, but in others, it’s extra work and emotional energy. I have to remind my brain, my muscle memory, that my arm doesn’t work like it used to. Sometimes I just miss tinkering, you know? I miss coming to my lab and just fiddling with my own two hands.”

 _Like I miss being able to just eat without thinking about it_ , Peter had thought.

“Me trying to find ways to live around this doesn’t make me inspirational,” Tony had tried to explain. Peter had tried to hide his knowledge of the kitchen conversation, but his quick look away from Tony at the word ‘inspiration’ had tipped him off. “I know you heard me talking to Pepper the other day. This is just me _living_. I wish people could see that. Pepper’s been trying. I know this is hard for her, too. She means well, but she doesn’t always get it.”

“May keeps trying to tell me this doesn’t define me,” Peter had added.

“And what do you think about that statement?”

Peter had shrugged. “It seems too simple to be true? I don’t know. May’s really into platitudes, but I don’t think she actually truly believes them. They’re just sayings to fill space, almost. Things haven’t been easy for her either and I think she says them to make herself feel better. It’s like your thing with Pepper: She means well, but she doesn’t always get it. Not with diabetes, at least. Like she gets the medical part because she’s a nurse, but the emotional stuff, not so much.”

“You can feel however you want to feel about it,” Tony assured him.

“But I’m not supposed to be so okay by being defined by this, right? It’s…a _disease_. And it’s not that I _like_ it, I absolutely hate it, but it’s always on my mind, always screaming for my attention. It’s not something I can just take off when I don’t want to deal with it. How could I not feel like it’s a part of me when it’s changed everything?”

“That’s the million-dollar question right there,” Tony had said with a small chuckle, but it hadn’t been in jest, sounded more _knowing_ than anything. “I’ve been asking myself that exact question for years now.”

“Hey, how is she?” Tony asks from the doorway, pulling Peter from his memory. In the hallway light seeping into the bedroom, Peter can see that he’s rubbing his right forearm, the way he does sometimes when he’s in pain but trying to hide it.

“Out cold,” Peter answers quietly, rising from where he’s kneeling on the floor.

“She’ll be up at five asking for cereal and cartoons,” he jokes. “Thanks for tucking her in. Get some sleep, kiddo. You look like you need it.”

“Love you too,” Peter whispers with a laugh, shaking his head as he heads toward his room.

x

“No! Stop!” Peter shouts.

He’s on his bed with his shirt raised just enough to see the new Dexcom sensor Tony’s stuck against his abdomen, Tony’s index finger paused on the orange button that inserts the sensor wire via a small needle.

Tony sighs, because this has happened during every sensor change in the last month. “Pete, the longer we put it off, the more anxious you’re going to get.”

“It’s the sound more than anything!”

“Bruce said it’s supposed to be nearly painless! Would you rather prick your fingers?”

“No, I just…ugh, I hate this! I hate all of this!”

“Let’s just get this done so we can do your pump site change. Ready?” Peter closes his eyes and nods. “One, two, three,” Tony announces before pressing down.

“Ow!” Peter cries out, wincing in pain. He looks down at it, watches as Tony works unsuccessfully at pulling the applicator away. “It’s stuck! Fuck! The needle…I can _feel it_! It’s stuck! It’s stuck!”

“Shit,” Tony spits. “I’ve gotta rip it off. Bear with me, kiddo.”

“Argh!” Peter pants as Tony slowly rips the white adhesive around the sensor from his sensitive skin. Finally, it’s off, a bloody, irritated mess left in the failed sensor application’s wake.

“There’s the needle,” Tony says, whistling as he examines the device up close. “You’d think that at more than $100 a pop, these babies wouldn’t jam.”

Peter grabs a tissue and wipes away at the blood pooling on his abdomen, tries not to let the tears brimming in his eyes fall.

Tony gets up, grabs a band-aid out of the plastic drawers with Peter’s medical supplies, and hands it over to Peter. “A Spiderman band-aid? Is this supposed to be some kind of cruel joke?!” Peter croaks out as he unwraps it, unsure if he’s on the verge of tears or laughter. He takes a gulp of air, and then another one, before the tears fall.

“Hey, kid, you okay?” Tony asks gently. He’s been asking that a lot lately.

Peter wipes his tears away and sniffles. “It’s just hard, is all. I’m tired. It’s after ten and I want to go to bed.”

“I know you are. I would be, too. It’s just sucky right now because both changes lined up around the same time.”

“Just want a break.”

“Amen to that,” Tony says, ripping open a second Dexcom sensor.

“No! I am _not_ putting another one on!”

“Kid, you’ve gotta. Don’t make me chase you around the house like I have to do with Morgan and antibiotics. I’m tired, too.”

“Can’t I just go one night without it?”

“We can’t run Basal-IQ without Dex.”

“Just one night? Please?”

“Pete, I want to say yes, I do, but you’re not doing these changes yourself yet and I have an early work meeting tomorrow. You’d have to go the whole school day without a Dexcom. May would have my ass if we didn’t have these around-the-clock readings while her and Happy are on their honeymoon. Not with your lows like they’ve been.”

Peter rubs his face, wills the tears to stop because he still has to get the Dexcom insertion over with, and then his pump site, which hurts even more. He’s running out of space on his abdomen, hasn’t rotated sites in a while, which has left him with some bruising and irritated skin. He looks up at Tony, who seems to be reading his mind, and offers up the back of his arm.

“You sure?” Tony asks him; it’s no secret that Peter hates arm sites. He has a tendency to rip them off by accident when changing a shirt or walking into door jambs.

“Just get it over with.” He knows there are little kids with diabetes that do this all of the time without complaining, has a sharps container full of used Dexcom sensors and applicators to prove he’s got months of these down in the books, but knowing these things doesn’t help. Sometimes, when Tony’s pulling out alcohol swabs and going through the plastic drawers in the corner of his room with his diabetes supplies, Peter feels sheer panic run through his body at the thought that he has to do this _again_ when he could swear they just did an insertion yesterday. 

It’s the pump sites that are making him crazy. Dexcom gets changed every ten days, but every _three_ days, they load up a new insulin cartridge and insert a new infusion site.

It’s supposed to be getting easier but it’s just _not_. If anything, they’re making him more anxious, more emotional, and he doesn’t understand how or why.

He doesn’t realize that Tony’s swabbed his arm and secured the sensor until after it’s been released from the applicator, a slight sting in his arm from the insertion of the wire.

“Didn’t even jump this time,” Tony comments, Peter taking a deep breath in relief. Tony unboxes a new transmitter, the gray piece that clicks into his sensor and sends his blood sugar readings to his phone, and points to a pile of the decals May purchased for him. “Let’s see, we’ve got a Pokémon ball–“

“It’s a Poké ball, Tony.”

“Right. Pac-man, LEGOs. What’s this one? Looks like–“

“Warp speed.” It’s black with streaks of white that make it look like it’s traveling faster than the speed of light. It’s quiet, discreet, unlike some of the other, brighter designs May’s picked out. “I want that one.”

“Aw, the Pokémon one would’ve been funny. What’s it called, a Poké Dex? Would that make this a…PokéDexcom?” He raises his eyebrows for effect.

Peter can’t help but throw his head back and laugh despite his frustration. “Ugh, Tony, that was the _worst_ dad joke ever. I’m serious!”

“Got you to laugh, didn’t I?” he adds. “Anyway, warp speed is actually called warp drive,” Tony explains as he attaches the new decal to the transmitter. He hands it to Peter, who clicks it into the sensor. “It’s a spacecraft propulsion system that uses…”

Peter’s too focused on pairing his new transmitter and starting his new sensor on his phone to hear most of what Tony’s saying. It takes a moment for the Bluetooth to recognize his transmitter, and then for him to go through the prompts on the screen and insert the sensor code.

“Einstein's theory of special relativity states that energy and mass are interchangeable…” Tony drones, wiping Peter’s abdomen with an alcohol swab. By the time Peter’s sensor is warming up, Tony’s already got a new pump cartridge filled with insulin, primed and ready to go. “And then you have to bring in Newton, because that explains low velocities…” Tony prepares the pump site inserter, a gray, round disc of plastic, with a click, before he removes needle guard and presses the inserter against Peter’s skin. “Relativistic velocities, however, are the answer to the issue of…” Tony’s continuing, but Peter’s looking up, closing his eyes, trying not to have a panic attack because there’s no going back now, he needs this site change if he wants to avoid shots for the next three days and–

Click.

A sharp pain.

The site is in. A moment later, after Tony fiddles with the settings on the pump, Peter can feel the insulin being delivered.

But he can’t breathe. His lungs are getting air, but it doesn’t _feel_ like they are. 

“Pete?” Tony’s asking, but his voice sounds distant. “Hey, look at me, kiddo.” It’s not until he puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder that the kid breaks down, fully and completely, into a mess of tears and sobs.

“Hey, shh, shh,” Tony whispers, pulling him against his chest. “Underoos. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“S’not okay! None of this is okay!”

“I meant the crying, kiddo. You’re allowed to be upset.” He rocks him back and forth, rubs his back just like he does when Morgan’s fallen and scraped her knee.

There’s a point where he can’t even get a breath in, is crying so hard that there’s only silence before he gasps for air, and Tony doesn’t know what to do. This is the second time in three days that Peter has broken down like this, has turned to Tony and just completely crumbled. 

Tony can count on one hand all of the times this has happened, so two in such quick succession is concerning.

“I-I’m okay,” Peter finally sobs out against Tony’s t-shirt, but it’s painfully obvious that he’s not.

“It’s okay not to be okay,” Tony whispers, but the words feel hollow, like a cop-out, because he can’t make this better no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much Peter wants him to, and that’s a hard truth to stomach.

“I don’t want to do this anymore!” Peter cries out, face twisting in anguish. “It’s only been three months and I’m exhausted!”

“Why don’t you take tomorrow as a mental health day?” Tony offers. “You can sleep in and I’ll get my afternoon meetings rescheduled so that we can see a movie or something.”

“Sleep in?!” Peter asks, incredulous as he lifts his head from Tony’s shirt. “I don’t get to sleep in anymore, Tony! Everything is about diabetes now! _Every little thing_!”

“We can have FRIDAY can take over for a few hours,” Tony says, remembering a second too late how that played out the last time they tried it.

“Yeah, remember how well that worked?” Peter throws back.

Tony doesn’t call Peter out for his attitude, because he deserves it.

Tony had spent countless hours coding an algorithm for FRIDAY to loop Dexcom and the pump more seamlessly with the hope that it would give Peter a break and Peter, worn out from a week of rollercoaster blood sugars, had happily taken the offer. At the time, Peter’s pump was programmed to pause his insulin if he fell under 80. Dexcom had said he was in the 70s, but they’d made the rookie mistake of blindly trusting a brand new sensor without seeing if it needed calibration. Peter had taken a nap and woken up with a headache from Hell.

Dexcom said 78, but a fingerstick showed he was 450.

The sensor had been way off. Technology had failed them.

_Garbage in, garbage out._

__Tony feels the guilt from that day fill his chest.“You’re right,” he says, nodding. “That didn’t exactly work out, which was my fault. I’m really sorry about that, Underoos. We know better than we did, though, and I think it could work this time if we make sure Dex is calibrated.”

“I appreciate it Tony, but I’m not exactly…comfortable.” He wipes his eyes with his t-shirt, sniffles as he tries not to break into sobs again. “I don’t like being out of control, you know? This just feels really complicated and confusing and scary and I’m…I’m _so tired_ of always having to be ‘on.’”

Peter’s words are a reminder to Tony that all of the technology and brainpower in the world can’t always outsmart diabetes. That little mistakes, little breaks, can sometimes cost the most.

Tony knows parents say this all of the time, but even with his own health stuff, he wishes he could take this from Peter and go through it himself so that the kid didn’t have to. There will be no “growing out of it” as Thor had suggested one night at dinner or “a cure” like Clint had mentioned reading about while Tony was fixing his comm unit. There are so many facets to chronic illness, Tony knows, and he doesn’t have the sense or the words he knows he needs to help Peter through this.

The teen grabs for a tissue from the box on his nightstand, takes a slow, deep breath, and breaks down again on the exhale.

Instead of responding with empty words, Tony wraps his arms around Peter and lets him cry and mumble out all of his frustrations until his breathing is slow and even, his eyes too tired to stay open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of the kudos, comments, and support! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to thank HDAnalyst and Lyralollygagger for all of their help fine-tuning this fic! :)

“Homework,” Peter mumbles before Tony can ask how his school day was, the teen bypassing his usual afternoon snack at the kitchen island and heading straight for his room.

“My day was _just okay_ , too,” Tony calls out jokingly, Peter’s door slamming closed in response.

The interaction isn’t unusual to Tony, but Peter’s slew of breakdowns the past week have him more aware of the slight changes in Peter’s language and behavior.

He figures he’ll give Peter some time to himself before checking on him around dinner.

He grabs an apple from the island, gets comfortable on a stool, and takes a bite while scrolling through emails on his StarkPad. Most are the usual Grumman, Lockheed, and General Dynamics emails and calendar meeting reminders. He accepts the meeting invites Pepper reminded him about earlier and replies to her texts about picking up Morgan from gymnastics at six. It takes him a while, but there, in the middle of the unread list, are two emails from Peter’s school, back-to-back. One is from Peter’s math teacher, Mr. Griggs, and the second is from the nurse, Shannon. He chooses the nurse’s email first, because he’s met her face-to-face, and he’s glad he does, because she details an impromptu pump site change after Peter’s was leaking insulin rather than delivering it, which explains the 350 with one arrow straight up that he saw on the Dexcom follow app earlier today. _He was pretty distraught_ , she explained. _I take it this was his first solo site change. Took us nearly twenty minutes to get him to gather the courage to insert it. There were some tears, but he did it all on his own._

 __The painful Dexcom and site changes have been Tony’s responsibility, and while he knows Peter will need to be able to do it all on his own by the time he leaves for college next year, he feels guilty pushing the issue right now. He knows that this diagnosis was unexpected and has been difficult for Peter. He’s thankful for Shannon’s updates and her help while Peter’s at school, makes a mental note to send her a thank you.

The email from Peter’s math teacher, however, is of a different tone entirely. _Peter was using his phone during class despite a strict no cell phone use policy. At his refusal to hand it over, Peter was given a referral to see the Dean. When Peter finally handed it over, the texts on the screen read, “You’re high. How much did you take at lunch?” Because of the possible drug use, I sent him to the Dean’s office with a referral in-hand, only he never showed, which is why he is now slated for two days of after-school detention this week._

 _Well, that explains the mood_ , Tony thinks to himself. He’d sent the _you’re high_ and _how much did you take at lunch?_ texts, had been referring to Peter’s blood sugar and units of insulin to cover the carb count for the sandwich and snacks they’d discussed and packed for lunch.

Tony takes a deep breath, tosses the apple in the garbage can, and walks to Peter’s bedroom. “Kiddo?” he asks, knocking.

No answer.

“I’m coming in.”

x

Peter’s belly-down on the bed, face turned toward the wall, feeling like an absolute failure. Nothing went right at school today, from the failed English quiz to spilling juice down his shirt, and finally, what happened in math class.

“Hey, bad day at school?” Tony asks, entering.

“Did the Dean email you?” Peter’s voice is small, barely above a whisper. He’s trying not to give away how hard he’s been crying, how hoarse his voice is, but he knows he’s failing at that, too.

“No, but Mr. Griggs and the nurse did. Heard you did your first solo site change,” Tony says, sitting on the edge of Peter’s bed. “Proud of you, kiddo. I know that’s been hard for you.”

“I wasn’t on my phone,” Peter says, sniffling, and it’s only now that he turns to Tony, reveals his face, red and streaked with tears. “I p-promise I wasn’t,” he adds.

Tony sighs. “I know you weren’t, kiddo.”

“I got a Dexcom alert that I was high, only I’d just b-bolused for lunch forty minutes beforehand, so I w-went to g-go bolus again and he asked m-me to hand over my phone, only it was my p-pump, and I was high and had a headache and I just f-froze. And that made him m-mad, so I tried to hand him my actual phone, and he read your text, about me being h-high, and he flipped out, asked me if I was on drugs, and I felt like s-shit and was afraid to say something rude, so I didn’t answer him. On the way down to the nurse, I realized that my site failed. I couldn’t go to the Dean until I got my blood sugar down. I-I’ll do the detentions, it’s okay, I just–”

“You’re not doing the detentions, Peter,” Tony interrupts, shaking his head.

Peter’s glassy eyes widen with panic. “Please don’t go up there, Tony! It’s totally fine. I can just do the–”

“You are _not_ doing those detentions, and I’m going to tell you why! Your 504 plan, a legal document that Mr. Griggs should have read and signed a form stating that he’d read as your teacher–”

“I don’t want you to talk to them! It’s bad enough that I interrupted class and then cried in the nurse’s office! Everyone thinks I do drugs now! I don’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else! I just had a really shitty day, and it’s _fine_ , I can do the detentions!”

“We need to start talking about all of this.”

Peter frowns. “About me getting in trouble at school?”

“About you bottling up everything about your diabetes and not advocating for yourself when you should.”

“Well, maybe I don’t want everyone to know, and asking for things means I have to do it publicly! You don’t understand what it’s like at school!”

Tony sighs, bringing up a conversation that he knows Peter hates having but needs to hear again. “Remember how we applied to College Board for your AP and SAT accommodations? How we had to submit a letter to the decathlon competition?”

“I told you the last time we talked about it, I’m just gonna take my pump off and hope for the best. I don’t need any accommodations!”

“It’s time to start thinking about how we are going to handle this going forward. I’m not just talking about testing and competitions, kiddo. There’s driving, college, living on your own, getting a job…” 

“‘We’?! Since when is there a ‘we’ in this? You and May don't even know what a pump site change or low feels like, so how can you say ‘we’ when _I'm_ the one who is doing this on my own every day?"

“You’re not doing this completely on your own, Peter. You have so much support, so many people who love and care about you.”

“But I _am_ doing this on my own, Tony! You and May have been really great and helpful, but it’s not…it’s _not the same_ as what I go through!”

“May and I think therapy or a support group might be a good idea.”

“Oh, so now that I’ve admitted this is hard, I have to go to therapy?!” _Why did I even open my mouth?_

Tony sighs. “No, Peter. That’s not it at all. I’ve gone to therapy a few times now, and it’s always given me some clarity, some tools–“

“I’ve been to a therapist before, Tony! After…after Ben! And I don’t need one now because I’m _fine_! This is just hard right now, but I’m okay!”

“Kiddo, we both know that’s not true. And I know May isn’t here right now to discuss this in person, but we spoke on the phone last night, after your site changes, and we both think–” 

_What the fuck?_ Peter thinks. “You talked about me behind my back?! With May?”

“Yes,” he admits softly, nodding. “And we collectively decided that if you don’t try at least two therapy sessions or teen support group meetings at Children’s, you can’t go to States or Nationals for decathlon.”

Peter sets his jaw and shakes his head. “More rules, got it,” Peter comments harshly. _Everything is about rules now, never what I want. Never what I think or know I need._ “So, I get no say in this?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Yes, it is! It’s exactly like that! _Everything_ is like that now!”

“Peter, don’t make this harder than it has to be. Don’t fight this. I know you had a hard day–“

“You,” Peter spits, pointing a finger at Tony, “don’t know _anything_ , so please, just stop pretending that you do! Stop talking to me like I’m Morgan and can’t do anything for myself!” He knows he could be doing more, like his own Dexcom and pump site changes, more of the carb calculations, but he’s still a little bit _scared_ , just wants Tony and May there when he needs them, not overstepping, worrying to a fault and taking control of every little piece of his life. “I want to be alone!”

He needs time to think. Time to come up with another plan.

Scratch that.

He needs a nap, for his brain to stop cycling through everything that happened at school and now Tony and May’s plan for Peter to attend therapy.

A nap sounds perfect right about now.

“I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready,” Tony says, patting the bed before getting up and leaving.

“Don’t bother,” Peter mumbles, but Tony’s already gone, door shut and room still.

X

It’s been nearly a week since the incident in math class, since Tony and May dropped their ultimatum on him, and Peter’s thankful for an afternoon with Ned, talking about States and building LEGOs.

It’s the most normal he’s felt in months.

“You’re not going to be an alternate, Peter,” Ned assures him as he sorts through the LEGO bricks on the carpet of Peter’s room. They’ve been saving for this 6,000-piece Harry Potter Hogwarts Castle kit for over a year now, and it finally came in the mail after being on backorder while they were at school. “For starters,” Ned continues, “we’ve only ever had one alternate, and it’s always been Flash.”

Peter picks through the same pile as Ned to collect the pieces for Hagrid’s Hut and sighs. “Flash definitely did better than me on that practice test Harrington gave.”

“He definitely didn’t. And wasn’t your blood sugar like, 300, that afternoon?”

“Yeah, which is why I couldn’t focus, but I didn’t say anything to Harrington, so he doesn’t even know, and now I feel like I’m definitely going to be an alternate. I…I should’ve said something.” He shakes his head and sighs in frustration. “I didn’t want Flash to make a big deal about it. _And_ I didn’t want MJ to think I was using it as an excuse. As captain, she helps Harrington make the decision. And you know how she is, how she can be.”

Ned shrugs. “Yeah, but Harrington gets the last say. He knows you’re smart, and he knows you’ve had a rough couple of months. He’s not going to make you an alternate over one test, Peter.”

“I don’t want any special treatment.” He sighs again, fiddles with the pieces in his hand. “I want my spot fair and square, just like everyone else on the team, especially after I ditched Nationals that time.”

“Regardless, Flash is so dumb he confused Teddy Roosevelt with FDR during a lightning round of drills when you were out. MJ practically kicked him out of practice for that one.”

Peter laughs. “She would.”

“No, man,” Ned says, laughing. “She actually threatened to kick him off of the team! She was all _Daddy can’t buy your membership here_ and it was fucking _awesome_!”

“Wish I had been there to see it,” he says, biting his lip to avoid the flashbacks of his week post-diagnosis. He busies himself to shift his focus, sorts the pieces for the hut by color and then shape. He’s got the walls built in minutes, is starting on the roof when Ned restarts the conversation.

“I’ve been trying to make a list of movies to download for the bus ride to States.”

“ _The Goonies_ ,” Peter says with a knowing smile.

Ned pretends to be offended. “You know me better than that! You know _I’m_ better than that!”

Now Peter’s offended, lifts his head up to gape at Ned. “We love _The Goonies_!”

“Yeah, but like, the whole _bus_ doesn’t need to know that! We’re nerds, Peter, but we need to like, mitigate our nerdiness within the pool of nerds, you know?”

“Okay, so…are we talking 80s classics, 90s? I can go through Ben’s collection of VHS–”

“More like underrated movies that everyone would like, even Betty. And dare I say, Flash.” He grimaces. “We need to appease the peasants, too.”

“ _Grease_?”

“Ew, no,” Ned says, laughing. “We need something more recent and a little less…sing-songy. _National Treasure_?”

“Oh, because that one’s not nerdy _at all_ ,” Peter says, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. “National Treasure isn’t even historically accurate, man. God, that’s the _last_ thing we need, Flash seeing it _just_ before we compete!”

“Facts,” Ned says, nodding in agreement. “Okay, so then where does that leave us? _Back to the Future, Space Jam_ …”

“ _Spaceballs_!” Peter yells out.

“Yes!” Ned pumps his fist in the air.

“And _Back to the Future_! For the trip home,” Peter adds. 

The two go back to their building, Ned moving on to the Whomping Willow after building the Hogwarts boats. Peter’s eyeing the plans thrown to the side so that they can start building the castle.

“May and Tony are okay with you going on an overnight trip?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t they be?” Peter asks, the realization washing over him a second later. “Oh. Uh, I don’t know, we haven’t really discussed it, to be honest. I just assumed I was going.” They’d won the downstate competition back in February, before Peter had been diagnosed, and with May’s wedding, the conversation had fallen to the wayside. The States competition is scheduled for the beginning of June to avoid the AP and New York State Regents exams, which leaves Peter with approximately two weeks to figure everything out.

“I know Harrington usually decides who gets to room with who, but I’m sure if we asked, he’d put us together again. You know, in case you went low or whatever at night.”

Peter thinks about it while he gathers the shrubbery pieces for the hut. “I don’t know, I don’t want him to think I’m asking just so that I can stay with you again.”

“Well, someone has to stay with you. Someone that knows what a Dexcom low alarm sounds like. Could you imagine _Charles_ ’ reaction?” he asks, shuddering. “He gives more unrelated answers to the questions than Flash does. I wouldn’t trust Charles with my _goldfish_.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m worth more than your goldfish,” Peter says, laughing. “But I’m sure it’ll be fine even if we don’t get to room together again.”

“Peter, I know you don’t like asking for things because of your diabetes, but like…you know that you can, right? You can ask for something when it’s going to keep you safe, or–“

“They’re called accommodations, and I don’t need them. I’m Spiderman, for goodness sake. I’ve been _to space_. I think I can handle a single night away from May and Tony,” he says with a laugh, but it’s awkward, catches in his throat in a way that almost makes him start crying. He doesn’t like the direction this conversation is going in, wishes Ned would stick to LEGOs and anything _but_ diabetes.

“It’s not that I don’t think you can handle it, Peter. I know that you can. But like, you just said that you were afraid to tell Harrington about your blood sugar during the test, and I know you can take tests another time if your blood sugar isn’t great, and–“

Peter drops the LEGOs in his hand, closes his eyes, and exhales sharply. “I don’t need them!”

Ned pauses, licks his lips, before giving a small sigh. “Just, hear me out, okay? We’ve been through a lot, with Ben and everything. I was there for you then and I’m here now, too. You can talk to me about this stuff, trust me to make sure you’re okay or listen when you need me to. I can do that. You know that I can.”

“I know,” Peter answers, upset with himself for getting angry at Ned. “I just don’t feel like talking about it right now. I…it’s hard to talk about.”

“That’s okay.”

Peter shakes his head, his voice cracking when he says, “It’s not. At least, that’s what May and Tony keep saying. They want me to go to this support group at Children’s on the Upper East Side. I didn’t want to go, I _still_ don’t want to go, actually, but I figure sitting and listening to everyone else talk might be easier than going and sitting with a therapist by myself for an hour.” He shrugs, shakes his head. “I don’t really want to do either option, honestly. But they said I can’t go to Nationals this summer if I don’t at least try the support group.”

“Okay, so, you go once and say you don’t like it.”

“They’ll make me go to regular therapy.”

“You went to therapy after Ben died.”

“Because I needed it.”

“So, what’s different now?”

“I guess I just feel like I’ve been handling this just fine? I don’t know. Like, why do I need to talk about it if I don’t even know what to say about it yet? It’s only been three months.”

“When does the group start?”

“The next meeting isn’t until the middle of June.” He’d had a long conversation with May on the topic, but it hadn’t helped, not really.

“Well, maybe by then you’ll have something to say.”

“Maybe.”

“Kiddo, pre-bolus!” Tony bellows down the hallway.

“Already did!” Peter shouts back.

“Liar!”

“He always knows!” Peter grumbles, pulling his pump from his hip. 

“You didn’t ask about a carb count on dinner!”

“How many?” Peter yells out.

“53!”

Peter inputs the amount on the screen, decides to also let the pump correct his blood sugar of 284. When it calculates as nearly 8 units for his bolus and correction, he pauses. It feels like a lot of insulin to be taking all at once, even for lasagna, and he’s been going low a lot, so he decides to do an extended bolus where it delivers 50% of the total insulin now and the rest over the next hour. It’s a gamble, since they’re still figuring his insulin sensitivity out. Sometimes it’s lower in the morning and higher in the evening, and other times it’s the opposite. He’s learning that he can do the same thing for the same meal twice and have two different results. He clicks “confirm,” confident that he’s made the best decision he could for the moment, and initiates the bolus. When he lifts his gaze up, he sees that Ned is giving him a look.

 _The_ look, to be exact.

The sad eyes that everyone else gives him when he does literally anything _diabetic_.

He knows Ned is trying, but it doesn’t stop Peter from feeling that flutter of nerves in his chest at the reminder that _this isn’t normal_ , that _other people don’t have to do this_.

“Peter!” Morgan calls out, entering the room with an American Girl doll under one arm. “Mommy said dinner’s ready!”

 _So much for that pre-bolus,_ he thinks, reclipping his pump.

“Thanks, Mo! We’ll be there in a second, okay?” Peter herds a spattering of LEGOs near the door into a pile to avoid the dreaded misstep one of them always has when they return from a break.

She nods, scampering down the hallway.

“Heads up, Pepper likes to hide vegetables in food for Morgan,” Peter says, rising from the carpet. “So, don’t comment on it if you find peas and carrots in your lasagna. We’re trying to keep it a secret.”

Ned gets up from the floor. “Dude, she’s probably doing it for you, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t comment? That’s so you’ll eat them, too. And Tony. Classic motherly tactic, if you ask me.”

Peter considers this, smiles at the thought as they walk toward the dining room. May’s always been great with the mom stuff, is the closest thing he’s ever had to a mother. He likes that Pepper treats him just like May does, holds him to the same standards and gives him the same consequences. It makes him feel like he truly belongs in the Stark household, like he finally has the extended family he always wished for. 

There’s a nagging worry in the back of his mind, though, that one day Pepper and Tony might get tired of the Dexcom alarms and pump changes, that it will eventually add up and be too much, that they’ll sit him down and tell him he has to go back to May’s. He knows that it’s stupid, that they took him in _after_ he got sick and jumped on board just as much as May, but it doesn’t stop his anxiety from kicking in when his blood sugar is on a rollercoaster, when he needs help figuring out a carb count or calculating a bolus, when it’s the middle of the night and he’s shaking, covered in sweat from a low, and calling out for Tony. It makes him feel like baggage, like extra responsibility that they don’t need on top of everything else they have to deal with.

He wants to be everything they see in him, everything they want for him, but the truth is that Peter isn’t sure he sees much in himself, and he doesn’t know how to fix that.

x

When they’re finally settled at the table and about to dig into the lasagna Pepper’s dished out, Tony’s phone rings.

“Excuse me, I’ve gotta take this. Be right back,” he announces, eyes focused on the caller ID.

“Really, Tony?” Pepper asks, unimpressed, but he ignores her, gets up from his seat and leaves the room. She rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath before plastering a smile on her face and making a big show of going to the kitchen to whip up a quick salad for everyone. 

“Dude, your family is so much cooler than mine,” Ned comments.

Peter laughs. “You only think that because you don’t live here.”

“Come on, man. What isn’t there to love?”

A pang of guilt hits Peter square in the chest. He rethinks his words. There’s a lot to be thankful for, a lot to love, about living with the Starks. He doesn’t actually mind Tony taking phone calls during family time or the predictable arguments between Tony and Pepper over everything from how to load the dishwasher correctly to whose turn it is to cook dinner. It reminds him of May and Ben, back when things felt good. Safe. It’s not that he doesn’t feel those things now, but Peter’s much more aware of how life can change in an instant, and he’s struggling to balance the two without one side weighing more than the other.

When Pepper returns, she makes bowls for each setting at the table and offers an “I’m so sorry about Tony, Ned. We usually have a ‘no business’ rule at the table, but you can imagine how well that goes.”

“That’s okay, Mrs. Stark…Potts…Stark…” he stammers awkwardly.

Pepper’s eyes soften. “You can call me Pepper. Mrs. makes me feel old.”

Ned relaxes. “Thanks for inviting me over for dinner. It looks great.”

“So, good news,” Tony announces, returning and taking his seat. “The prototype for a clean, renewable energy source that Peter and I have been working on in the lab has just been picked up by NASA!”

“Honey, that’s amazing!” Pepper congratulates, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.

Peter sits, beaming, his excitement hard to contain. It feels good to have accomplished something so unexpected, so monumental. _NASA wants their work! They’re going to be working with NASA!_

“The core of the design is my element, but the rest is all you, kiddo,” Tony explains with a wide grin on his face, pointing his fork at Peter. “You deserve most of the credit. We’ll have to celebrate when May and Happy get home.”

Peter grins and gives a small _thanks_ when Ned gives him a small punch in celebration.

Morgan tilts her head, scrunches her face in confusion. “Does that mean Peter’s going to space? I don’t want him to go to space!”

Tony laughs. “No, baby. In a few years, when we send astronauts to explore Mars, they’ll use what we’ve created to get them there and back.”

Morgan shifts her focus to tightening the loose lid on her cup, eyes narrowing in concentration. The second she tilts it, the lid and straw pop off, milk pouring out and onto the table. “Shit!” she yelps, eyes wide.

Ned chokes on his first bite of salad, has to cover his mouth to keep the food from coming out while he laughs. Peter tries to hold back his laughter as he reaches over with his napkin, but Pepper gets there first.

“We don’t use that word, honey, that’s Daddy’s word!” Pepper warns in a motherly tone, trying to hold back a laugh as she rights Morgan’s cup and mops up the milk with napkins.

“But Daddy said it was _your_ word!”

“This is extortion!” Tony shouts playfully.

“What’s that?” Morgan asks, face twisting in confusion.

Ned leans over to Peter and whispers, “Is it always like this?”

Peter closes his eyes in embarrassment and whispers back, “Yes.”

Tony grins as he says, “We’ll try not to humiliate you too much.”

“Can’t make any promises on that front with this guy at the table,” Pepper says, Tony elbowing her. She elbows him back.

“As long as you don’t start fighting,” Peter adds, sighing. Despite the good news and excitement over the NASA deal, he can feel his appetite waning. He’s not usually like this, especially before he’s even started eating, but suddenly he’s _tired_.

He briefly closes his eyes, wonders if maybe he overdid it on patrol the night before.

“As long as this one keeps his mouth shut, we’ll be okay,” Pepper quips.

Tony scowls. “Oh, _I’m_ the one that always starts the fights?”

“Guys,” Peter cuts in. “Please.” He nods his head toward Morgan as a reminder of how upset she gets when they raise their voices, the two backing down. His head is pounding all of a sudden and he has to close his eyes again.

A Dexcom urgent low alarm, four short beeps, fills the room.

He knows his body well enough by now, knows that Dexcom is usually fifteen minutes behind. For him to feel as shitty as he does, to be having such a hard time keeping his eyes open, he has to already be below 50. He rubs his left temple and takes a deep breath.

“Pete, can you hear me?” Tony’s asking, his fork falling to his plate and chair legs scraping against the floor as he gets up, but it all sounds like it’s underwater.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, but he can already feel the sweat on his back, the pins and needles in his hands. He feels woozy, like the world around him is phasing in and out.

“Open your eyes,” Tony’s coaxing, but Peter’s afraid that if he opens them, it’ll throw his entire body off and send him face first into his food or worse, toward the floor. He’s not sure how, but he knows it’s sometime later, that there’s been some kind of gap in time when Tony rubs his shoulder in an attempt to wake him. “Kid? Open your eyes or say something, please.” There’s fear in his voice, and it pushes Peter to say the first thing he can think of.

“J-juice,” Peter finally announces, eyes still closed. He’s not sure if what did come out is even comprehensible, but it doesn’t seem to matter because soon there’s a straw at his lips and after a few sips, he feels okay enough to cautiously lets his eyes open. There’s a scared Morgan in Pepper’s lap across the room, Ned looking about the same on the edge of his vision, and Tony in front of him.

“We waited too long to eat,” Tony says, regret in his eyes and voice. “And then there was all of that excitement from the NASA announcement. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, kiddo. This is my fault.” He sighs, pushes Peter’s hair out of his eyes. “How are you feeling? Do you need another juice box?”

“A little better,” he answers, blinking the fogginess away. “Not your fault, though. Got distracted. Should’ve remembered…my pre-bolus.” It’s hard for Peter to find words sometimes when his blood sugar is low, but his fingers aren’t tingling anymore, which he’s happy about. He finishes the juice box and goes to take a bite of his lasagna.

“You sure you’re okay?” Ned asks quietly as Tony’s unwrapping the straw on a second juice box.

“Y-yeah,” Peter lies, willing the conversation to move away from him and onto something else entirely.

Tony seems to read his mind when he says, “You know, I tried patenting the element as badassium, but Pepper and the legal team struck it down, said it caused too many legal issues,” Tony explains with a laugh, shaking his head as he nonchalantly places the juice box next to Peter’s plate. “I still think that would’ve been a kick ass name, don’t you think, Ned?”

Ned pauses, surprised that Tony’s gotten his name right, the attention suddenly on him to respond.

“Daddy!” Morgan laughs, covering her ears. “Now _you’re_ saying bad words!”

“Right,” he answers, playing along. “No more bad words for anyone at the dinner table!”

She giggles, pushing her hair out of her face.

Peter’s still feeling embarrassed about his low, how it interrupted everything, especially the good news about NASA. He knows Tony tried to take the focus off of his diabetes with his story about badassium, is telling jokes to lighten the mood, but he’s still not fully himself yet, is having a hard time following the conversation even though he’s taken a few bites of his lasagna and has some carbs in his system to counteract his low. 

“Enough with the dad jokes, Tony,” Pepper warns playfully. “You need to eat, too.”

Tony takes a forkful of lasagna, exaggerating for effect. He follows up with “When does a joke actually become a dad joke, anyway?”

No one answers. 

“When they become apparent.”

Peter and Ned laugh, Morgan too busy with her cup again to notice the joke.

“I refuse to entertain these poorly constructed puns,” Pepper gripes, but Peter can tell she’s trying not to laugh as she sips her water.

“The shirt says it all,” he says with his classic Tony grin, lifting the top edges of his _I tell dad jokes periodically_ shirt so that it’s visible. “I’m a dad now! I get to tell all the bad jokes I want!”

Peter moves the lasagna on his plate around with his fork as he listens, thinks back to his site changes from a week ago. Tony had jumped right in with dad jokes and a quick science lesson on warp speed to distract him from reality, just like he is right now.

And Peter’s not sure why, exactly, because he’s still trying to figure out why he sometimes is completely fine with the diabetes stuff and other times a puddle on the floor over it, but he, in turn, had sobbed in Tony’s arms, mumbled strings of words that made no sense until his voice was hoarse. When his eyes were swollen and heavy, his brain too exhausted to say one more word, Tony had tucked him into bed like he was five years old.

“Sometimes we go through things that we don’t understand,” Tony had whispered, sniffling. “It’s an unfair battle, kiddo, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that you have to do this. I wish I could take it away.”

Peter had been on the verge of sleep, but he’d heard Tony, realized then just how much of Peter’s emotions about his illness Tony truly understood.

As the table conversation shifts toward the new _Star Wars_ movie coming out, though, Peter’s quiet, focused more on clearing his plate and trying to figure out how if Tony understands, like _truly_ understands, why in the world would he give Peter such a shitty ultimatum?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave comments and/or kudos!
> 
> What songs do you think would make a great soundtrack for this fic?
> 
> Favorite parts so far?
> 
> :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read this note.
> 
> I love that you all love my writing. I love that I get to share my passion with the world. I started writing these stories to help people understand why having a chronic illness can feel so isolating, how people often only see a small part of the picture because they typically only see or hear from you when you're doing well enough to be visible, active, etc. I write these stories because I want so badly for people to understand what living with and around a chronic illness and/or disability is like. It’s been frequently noted that, as a writer, I don’t have much of a posting schedule. In the 15+ years that I have been writing fic, I have never had one. Still, I receive countless comments on AO3 and messages on Tumblr asking me when I’m going to update. 
> 
> The short answer is that I update when I’m done writing the next part. The long answer is that the thing that gives me the knowledge to write the things is the thing that keeps me from writing on a schedule. (Does that make sense?) My chronic illness is the thing that keeps me from being as productive as I wish I could be in ALL aspects of my life. Productivity is the impossible bar that many people with disabilities and/or chronic illness are often unfairly judged against. The concept of productivity is inherently ableist because it places somebody’s worth/value based on how much work they are able to do/accomplish at any given time. Sometimes intent doesn’t always equal impact. Repeated comments asking me when I'm updating my fic because I haven't posted in a while are not encouraging, even if they are meant to be. 
> 
> Living in the NYC area, the last few months have been an absolute nightmare. Couple that with the fact that those of us with chronic illness are more at risk for COVID complications and you have anxiety on high with no end in sight. I turned to writing to cope. Writing has been my happy place in all of this. 
> 
> Like Peter, I am overeager and trying to compensate in any way that I can for a body that is unpredictable by purposely being overprotective. Sometimes, most times, actually, I crash and burn. I currently work full time, have a second job, and am a doctoral student. I write/post fic when I am able. If you would like to receive updates in real-time, you may click "Subscribe" here on AO3. You will then receive an email update when I post. I love you all dearly and kindly ask that you respect my boundaries and limits that are in place to protect my health. I hope this note makes sense. I’m not angry. I just want people to understand. ❤️

Peter’s bedroom door slowly creaks open, waking him. He’s usually a heavy sleeper, but the middle of the night wakeups so that Tony can check his blood sugar, help him treat a low, or give him a bolus of insulin have made it so that the tiniest of noises has him up and wired.

“Petey?” Morgan whispers. “You awake?”

“Yeah, Mo. What’s up? Everything okay?” he asks, sitting up.

He doesn’t mind this, these nights when Morgan tiptoes into his room with her bunny stuffed animal, doesn’t get angry or irritated with her. He knows Tony needs sleep, that with his health and love of late night lab sessions and making sure Peter’s blood sugar is in range, he barely gets enough, so Peter lets Morgan wake him when she has her nightmares, when she wants a cup of water, when he thinks he can handle the myriad of stories Morgan conjures up with her wild imagination, in place of Tony.

“I dreamt about Daddy’s arm again,” she says, and Peter can barely see her in the dark, can just make out the outline of her unruly hair and long nightgown in the little bit of light coming through his window, but he imagines her as smaller than she is, can picture her biting her lip and clutching her bunny close.

“Come here,” he says, lifting her up and into his bed so that she’s tucked against him. He moves his pump, which he unclips from his pants while he sleeps, so that she can’t rip his pump site out.

She’s done that more times than Peter cares to count. Unintentionally, of course, but painful every time.

“I don’t like it when I dream about Daddy’s arm,” she says, sniffling.

“I know, Mo. I know,” he whispers back, brushing her hair from her face. “Hey, you wanna see something cool?” he asks her softly as he turns his lamp on. She burrows into his chest and nods.

While going through things from May’s apartment a few weeks ago, Peter had found the old View Master he’d had as a kid, the red plastic goggles and white cardboard reels in pristine condition. 

He gets up from the bed, is trying to get a good grip on Morgan so that he doesn’t have to put her down, when he feels the weight of his pump pull on his infusion set. It hits the wood floor with a loud clatter, his eyes closing as he silently curses himself.

He should be used to having a pump by now, but he isn’t.

“Oh no!” Morgan whispers, shimmying out of his arms and pulling his pump into her hands. She gives a small sigh of relief. “Look, Batman’s okay!”

Peter had named his pump Batman and his Dexcom sensor Robin to help Morgan adjust the weekend after his Easter low. They’d been sitting watching Saturday morning cartoons, _Batman_ , to be exact, when he’d come up with it. Morgan had been eyeing his pump from her side of the couch. He’d felt self-conscious, all of a sudden, exactly like he’d felt at school the few weeks prior with his shiny new pump, though he didn’t exactly blame her for the interest. She was only five, after all. She didn’t fully understand. And how could she? His dramatic Easter fall with blood gushing from his forehead, or so May had told him because he doesn’t remember most of it, had been more than enough to give Morgan a new set of nightmares. Giving the devices familiar, fun names and explaining their functions as simply as possible seemed to do the trick.

“Thanks, Mo,” he whispers with a smile, examining the pump for himself in the lamplight and deeming it fine before clipping it to his pajama pants. He crouches down beneath his bed, pulls out the box, and digs for the View Master and set of Disney scenes from his favorite animated movies. When he finds it and holds it up in all of its red and yellow glory, Morgan’s eyes go wide.

“It looks like Daddy’s helmet!” she says with a loud giggle, and Peter has to shush her.

“Shh, Daddy’s sleeping, remember?” Peter reminds her sweetly.

“He needs his sleep ‘cause his heart isn’t strong, right Petey?” She’s referring to the loss of his reactor, the one that effectively led to him becoming Iron Man. Before Thanos, Tony had his reactor and remaining shrapnel from the blast in Afghanistan removed, was using nanotechnology to keep his heart as healthy as possible. But then the jolt to his body from the stones had been too much, and Tony would never openly admit it, but Peter’s seen him struggle with stairs on a bad day, with palpitations and spurts of chest pain during movie nights and lab sessions.

“Yeah, Mo,” he says. “Daddy needs a lot of sleep, so we need to be really, really quiet, okay?” She nods while he slides a random Disney reel into the slot on the top of the View Master and holds it up so that the light can come through the front. A scene from Aladdin comes to life before his eyes. “Oh, this was one of my favorites when I was your age!”

“Let me see! Let me see!” she begs quietly in the lamplight, though Peter can see the excitement in her wide eyes. He turns her toward the lamp and helps her put the View Master to her face. “It’s Princess Jasmine!” she whispers.

Peter helps her click the wheel to change the image.

“Oh, it’s Genie!”

The childish wonder on her face brings a smile to his.

“It’s like magic!” she whispers with awe.

Peter chuckles, helping her click the wheel again. “It is, isn’t it?”

He feels like he’s been missing magic in his life lately. He’s not sure why or how, but LEGOs with Ned and making the team for States this week have only made his anxiety worse. Tony, and May are pressuring him to go to therapy, to become better at planning ahead, to start thinking about how he’s going to handle States, Nationals, the SATs, driving, and college. All of that was foreboding enough before diabetes, now it feels like he’s on a train that’s derailed, is about to take out everything in its path, and he wants to jump before it crashes but he doesn’t know _when_.

He’s afraid of the fall, of taking everyone around him down with it.

Morgan, though, keeps him tethered to childhood, to simpler times, to daydreaming and asking questions like, “Is cereal soup?” as they sit at the kitchen island eating breakfast before school. Her new favorite show is _Arthur_ , which he watched religiously on PBS as a kid because May and Ben couldn’t afford cable, and while he knows it's babyish, he likes sitting with her after school as they snack on Goldfish crackers and color. Spending time with Morgan, Peter’s convinced, is the only thing keeping him together right now.

“It’s all done,” she says, pulling the View Master away from her face.

Peter pulls the reel out and rifles through the box. “I think I have dinosaurs and _The Little Mermaid_ ones in here.” He knows she loves dinosaurs, which is why he’s promised to take her to the American Museum of Natural History this summer, but she’s also obsessed with Ariel and mermaids right now. He finds both, lets her look at the reels to decide.

Tony and Pepper have her enrolled in The Waldorf School uptown, which has made it difficult for them to spell things to Peter that they don’t want Morgan to hear or understand. While she can’t read most picture books yet, Peter knows she can recognize the words “dinosaur” and “mermaid.”

She takes the dinosaur one and slides it carefully into the top of the View Master.

“When are we going to see the real dinosaurs?” she asks.

“Soon, Mo,” he assures her. “I promise.”

“Why not now?” she whines. He doesn’t correct her, though; she gets like this when she’s sleepy.

“Well, it’s nighttime and the museum is closed,” he jokes softly, but he knows what she really means: He promised her months ago, before he was diagnosed, and now Tony and Pepper don’t trust him taking her anywhere alone because of his low blood sugar episodes. They’re fine with him babysitting at the Tower, with FRIDAY and members of the Avengers nearby, just in case. He doesn’t blame them, not really, but he hates that Morgan’s missing out, that his diabetes has to be factored into something completely unrelated once again.

“It would be silly to go to a museum at night,” she says with a giggle.

Peter gets an idea. “You know, there’s a movie about it. Rumor has it that the museum comes alive at night.”

She tilts her head and puts a hand on her hip, gives him the same look Pepper does when she thinks Tony’s trying to pull a fast one. Morgan’s imaginative, sure, but she’s also smart as a whip.

Peter winks, which makes her laugh. “FRIDAY, can you download _Night at the Museum_ for movie night this week?”

“Downloading a digital copy,” she replies.

Morgan yawns, which gets Peter yawning. “I think it’s time for bed,” he announces.

She frowns. “But I didn’t get to see the dinosaurs yet!”

“How about this: If you promise to take really really good care of my View Master, I’ll let you borrow it.”

Her face lights up. “I promise!”

A moment later, he walks quietly down the hallway, Morgan half-asleep on one hip, her head on his shoulder, and the view master box in the other, his phone’s flashlight app lighting his way to tuck Morgan in.

X

This week’s second decathlon practice starts with Harrington realizing he left his copies of practice packets in the copy machine down the hall. Usually, Peter likes the freedom of not having adults breathing down his neck, but lately, it creates more anxiety than it’s worth, especially at school.

It’s not the stupid comments that Flash manages to come up with.

Okay, so it’s _part_ of it.

But really, it’s that Flash always seems to find _every available moment_ that Harrington is out of earshot to sneak them in, and Peter doesn’t want to tell anyone, because that means Peter has to speak up about the bullying (is it really bullying, though?), and now about his diabetes. He knows can ignore Flash like he always has. He doesn’t need to give him any more ammunition. Not with States so close and May and Tony on him about the support group. The last thing he needs is Harrington to email them with “concerns.”

He really doesn’t need a repeat of the Griggs situation.

Betty calls him and Ned over, shows them a TikTok of a small dog rushing up the steps only to tumble backwards. 

They laugh, watch it again, Peter interrupted by a silent vibration alert on his StarkWatch.

Peter looks down and notices that his blood sugar is around 70 with a slight down arrow. Definitely not where he wants to start an intense decathlon practice. He unwraps a Starburst and pops it in his mouth.

“Hey, Sugar,” Flash calls over, Peter stiffening at the nickname as he chews. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be eating that?”

Peter scrunches his face, has to hold back the words threatening to stream from his mouth, the ones that could get him kicked off the team. He takes a deep breath, reminds himself that he’d probably be as rich as Tony if he got paid every time someone said that phrase to him.

It doesn’t help.

“Ah, the Penis Parker meme face!” Flash quips, rubbing his hands together. “Perfect!”

“I didn’t realize we had the food police in our presence,” MJ says, striding over. She cocks her head at Flash and crosses her arms.

Peter’s cheeks redden. He does not need anyone, let alone MJ, coming to his defense when he can surely handle this on his own with his usual tactic of avoiding the problem until it goes away.

Only, Flash isn’t going away. He’s moving closer to Peter now, has his eyes locked on his.

The room is getting warm, Peter’s body prickling with nervous electricity, because everyone has stopped and is focused on them. He doesn’t want to have to explain himself. _It’s not their business_.

“It’s obvious that your knowledge of biology is just as shit as that of history,” MJ comments with her usual huff, the room erupting in laughter as Flash turns to look at her in irritation.

And even though Peter knows the laughter is directed at Flash, he still feels like it’s about him, because it _is_.

This whole conversation is.

This, right here, is why he doesn’t like talking about his diabetes. The questions, the lack of knowledge and understanding, the awkwardness. He can’t blame them for not knowing, but that doesn’t stop him from wishing that they did.

If he walks out of the room, it’ll be clear that Flash has gotten to him, and if he stays, lets the stupid question simmer the entire practice and affect his performance, it’ll also be clear that Flash has won.

It’s exactly what Flash wants.

“Spare us your gross misunderstanding of gluconeogenesis and maybe get your head in a practice book or a textbook for once,” MJ adds.

Peter’s never once doubted the height of MJ’s intelligence, but _gluconeogenesis?_ That’s on another level completely.

“What I said wasn’t gross,” Flash argues, MJ facepalming in response.

“Gross as in _massive_ , you dolt! Remind me again how you got on this team?”

“He’s fast and his specialty is pop culture references,” Charles reminds the group, which earns an eye roll from MJ and groans from everyone else. 

“Leave it to Charles to make the idiot statement of the year,” Ned whispers under his breath.

The conversation is forgotten when Harrington returns, and everyone finds a seat to begin practice. MJ slaps a packet down on Peter’s desk and tries to make eye contact, but he can’t get himself to look at her, fixes his eyes on the window to his left and fidgets with the pen in his hand. His body is still buzzing with nervous energy, the kind that comes from his health being uncomfortably brought to everyone’s attention, and he’s not sure if he’s glad or bothered that MJ took it upon herself to dish Flash’s question back at him.

He pops another Starburst as Harrington starts with the literature questions. He waits a few minutes before checking his watch out of habit, finds that he’s cruising at a steady 91. He hopes he doesn’t have to deal with Dexcom or pump alarms for the next hour and a half because he needs to do well during these drills if he wants a chance at States. Tony’s been practicing with him every night after Morgan’s been put to bed, just the two of them. It’s been just the thing, the perfect distraction that Peter’s needed, to keep him emotionally afloat while Harrington compiles his final list for States.

“The term for the minimum amount of fissile material needed to achieve a self-sustaining chain reaction,” Harrington prompts.

“Peter,” Ned nudges with a glare one desk over.

Flash’s bell dings. “Isotope.” 

“Incorrect.” Harrington repeats the question.

Peter hits the bell on his desk. “Critical mass!”

“Correct!”

Flash sneers from two rows over.

“This element was detected in space during a total solar eclipse in 1868 but wasn’t discovered on Earth until 1895,” Harrington continues.

Peter rings his bell again. “Helium!”

“Also correct.”

Peter gives a small smile, but on the inside, he’s beaming. Listening to Tony talk about science, especially nuclear and astro physics, makes him feel like he did with Ben: Like the world is at his fingertips, like even though he’s aware of how much he doesn’t know about the world, about the _universe_ , it makes him thirsty for more knowledge.

“Coming in clutch with the physics questions,” MJ comments, nodding in approval. “Nice!”

He takes a calming breath, clears his head, and gears up for the next round of drills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to velvet-impala for help with this chapter!
> 
> New readers, please read this note. If you've been here since the beginning, you may have already read it.
> 
> I love that you all love my writing. I love that I get to share my passion with the world. I started writing these stories to help people understand why having a chronic illness can feel so isolating, how people often only see a small part of the picture because they typically only see or hear from you when you're doing well enough to be visible, active, etc. I write these stories because I want so badly for people to understand what living with and around a chronic illness and/or disability is like. It’s been frequently noted that, as a writer, I don’t have much of a posting schedule. In the 15+ years that I have been writing fic, I have never had one. Still, I receive countless comments on AO3 and messages on Tumblr asking me when I’m going to update.
> 
> The short answer is that I update when I’m done writing the next part. The long answer is that the thing that gives me the knowledge to write the things is the thing that keeps me from writing on a schedule. (Does that make sense?) My chronic illness is the thing that keeps me from being as productive as I wish I could be in ALL aspects of my life. Productivity is the impossible bar that many people with disabilities and/or chronic illness are often unfairly judged against. The concept of productivity is inherently ableist because it places somebody’s worth/value based on how much work they are able to do/accomplish at any given time. Sometimes intent doesn’t always equal impact. Repeated comments asking me when I'm updating my fic because I haven't posted in a while are not encouraging, even if they are meant to be.
> 
> Living in the NYC area, the last few months have been an absolute nightmare. Couple that with the fact that those of us with chronic illness are more at risk for COVID complications and you have anxiety on high with no end in sight. I turned to writing to cope. Writing has been my happy place in all of this.
> 
> Like Peter, I am overeager and trying to compensate in any way that I can for a body that is unpredictable by purposely being overprotective. Sometimes, most times, actually, I crash and burn. I currently work full time, have a second job, and am a doctoral student. I write/post fic when I am able. If you would like to receive updates in real-time, you may click "Subscribe" here on AO3. You will then receive an email update when I post. I love you all dearly and kindly ask that you respect my boundaries and limits that are in place to protect my health. I hope this note makes sense. I’m not angry. I just want people to understand. ❤️

Entering May and Happy’s apartment without knocking seems rude even though they’ve told Peter again and again that he’s welcome any time. He has a key, but he knocks and waits for May to open the door anyway.

“Baby,” she squeals, giving him a tight hug before pulling away to check him over. She’s tan from her two weeks in Hawaii and already in her scrubs for work; Peter knows she’s leaving for her shift at the hospital soon, that they’re just doing a quick, early dinner to catch-up. “You look exhausted. AP week must’ve taken a lot out of you, huh? How’s everything else at school?”

It’s a general question, one that shouldn’t bother Peter so much, but it does because school, which has always been easy and the least of his worries, is suddenly giving him anxiety.

Like, can’t sleep, no appetite, willing to skip class to avoid feeling overwhelmed in certain classes, anxiety.

But it also means she knows. About the Griggs situation.

Did he really think Tony wouldn’t tell her?

He hasn’t wanted to admit it, but taking three AP classes as a junior was much harder than Peter thought it would be. His honors classes may be tedious and take up much of his afternoons during both the week and weekend, but school has never felt exceedingly overwhelming like it does now. And even though he eventually caught up on the material he missed while he was out, and even though he took all of the exams last week and is finished with AP classes for the year, he’s worried he won’t score high enough to get college credit on any of them. The overwhelming reminder that May paid hundreds of dollars for him to potentially bomb all three tests and lose out on college credits has weighed heavily on him all week because he doesn’t feel like he’s done his best. That, and the dean referral situation with Griggs had only made him even more panicked about needing approved accommodations from College Board during testing. 

It’s not that Peter doesn’t trust his teachers since that day in math class.

Okay, so maybe he’s nervous about having to fight another referral even though Tony reminded him during their internship this week that it’s in his 504 plan that he can walk out of class whenever he needs to for diabetes-related issues, no questions asked, and go to the nurse without penalty.

Still, all of that hadn’t made AP week, needing accommodations just to fairly take his tests, any easier.

He’d sat in a stuffy room with six other students who needed extended time. MJ was already seated when Peter had arrived. He didn’t approach her about it because he didn’t feel like it was his business, figured maybe she had test anxiety or ADD. That didn’t stop him from wondering, though. While testing, he’d had a few lows and highs, had drank apple juice and programmed a few corrections. As he’d sat in that testing room, he secretly wished he’d used his accommodations for smaller tests as practice, had come up with the perfect pre-test breakfast to keep him steady despite his anxiety.

Peter realizes May is waiting for him to answer, has a hand on her hip in anticipation.

“School is…school.” He shrugs, tries to be nonchalant. He doesn’t want to talk about Griggs right now.

"I heard about the prototype for NASA. I'm so proud of you!" she exclaims, kissing him on the forehead. “Oh!” she says, eyes lighting up. “I bought you some toiletries and snacks for your trip this weekend,” May announces, grabbing a Target bag from the dining room table and bringing it over to the couch. “Look through it and let me know if I missed anything important.”

There’s the usual, like toothpaste and deodorant, but then there’s a few packs of Skittles, Sour Patch Kids, Pringles, and Chex Mix. They’re the snacks she buys for annual school trips to places like MoMA or The Liberty Science Center, which is why a pang of sadness settles in Peter’s stomach. She’s trying to make this trip anything _but_ a big deal even though he knows she’s just as nervous as he is.

The sadness he’s feeling has nothing to do with the snacks, not really. He knows he can eat them if he covers them with a bolus, doesn’t need to wait to use them for lows. Sugar free candy upsets his stomach, so he’s learned to just eat the real stuff and figure out the best way to pre-bolus and how much to give himself for his favorite candy. Tony’s much more vigilant about the exact carb counts of what Peter eats, which is annoying sometimes, while May’s freer, encourages him to try new foods and see how it goes. He knows she’s vigilant in her own way, off on the sidelines, just wants Peter to work on his independence since he’ll be going to college soon. 

Neither of them know that Peter listens in on their conversations, that his hearing can be fine-tuned if he wants it to be. But he’s also not dumb; he’s good at reading people, at reading Tony and May, and watching them co-parent despite not being married has been…weird.

“Pete, hey,” Happy says, entering the room. He’s in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, which Peter still isn’t used to seeing him in. Happy goes in for an awkward side hug, and Peter lets it happen. He likes Happy, he does, just isn’t sure how to do this sort-of-an-uncle, sort-of-a-father-figure thing. “Congrats on the NASA stuff. That's a big deal. Did May give you the gift?”

May jumps up from the couch. “Oh, shoot! I’ll be right back!” She scurries off toward the bedroom.

Happy chuckles. “I think she may have left her brain back in Hawaii.”

“Did you guys have a good trip?”

“Amazing trip. We couldn’t wait to get home and see you, though.”

 _We_?

He wonders if that’s codeword for _May and I were worried sick the entire time_.

Peter shakes the thought away; May seems content, more so than she has in years. There’s a literal bounce in her step, a joyfulness to her voice that Peter hasn’t heard in so long. And Happy seems…happy. Like himself but even calmer. More chill.

May holds out a small box when she returns. “Here we go.”

Peter carefully pulls away tissue paper and holds the item in the palm of his hand. “You…you got me a rock.” The words tumble out before he can stop them. His nerdy ass knows exactly what kind of rock he’s holding, how rare obsidian is in Hawaii. He struggles to find the words to correct what he’s said, though, is afraid to look up at May because he doesn’t want to have upset her. And then he remembers Pele’s Curse. “I’m guessing you didn’t know that you’re not supposed to take anything like sand or rocks from Hawaii because it’s considered bad luck.” 

He closes his eyes and does a mental facepalm.

He’s fucked up. Big time. _Just say thank you,_ he thinks.

He knows the curse isn’t realistic, but it hasn’t exactly been the best year so far. He’d like all of the help he can get.

“T-thank you. Both of you. I do love it, even if it’s cursed. I’m excited to add it to my rock collection.” He gives a small laugh, lets May kiss him sweetly on his forehead. For a moment, it feels like Ben is there, just as genuinely thrilled as Peter is over a rock.

 _Not just any rock_ , Peter hears Ben whisper in his head.

“Anything for my baby,” May chimes before the oven buzzer goes off in the kitchen.

X

Peter pauses in front of the Embry Riddle booth at Midtown’s college fair in the school gym.

He can’t help but think of Ben.

May’s gift rock from the other day has him thinking about Ben again, about his love for all things science.

And all things stories.

Ben and his stories. 

About traveling the world. Hiking National Parks. Flying. Just thinking about him, he can hear the engines of the small plane Ben had taken him up in roaring to life, smell the jet fuel, picture the way the world rushed past in the window. It brings a welcome smile to his face, which invites the man at the booth to wave him over.

“You interested in flying?” the man asks in a Southern accent, holding out a brochure.

“Y-yeah,” Peter says with a small laugh. “I-I’ve always wanted to fly.”

“Embry Riddle’s one of the top programs in the country for aviation. We offer multiple majors that might interest you, depending on your plans. Were you looking into any other schools?”

“Cal Tech,” Peter adds, shrugging. “MIT as a backup.”

“Ah, yes, MIT was my backup, too,” the man says, winking. Peter laughs and flips through the glossy pages of the brochure. The college is just as Ben described. There’s a sprawling campus with science buildings, labs, and hangars for hands-on experience. And the Florida backdrop, beaches and lush forest, are the opposite of New York most of year. He feels his heart longing to go somewhere, anywhere, to start over.

The man nods as he asks, “What kind of extracurriculars are you involved in?”

Peter details his time on the decathlon team, in the robotics and LEGO clubs; he hopes he doesn’t make himself sound too much like a dork. He describes his Stark Internship as an “apprenticeship with a local engineer” to avoid being peppered with invasive questions and lists the AP courses he’s dedicated himself to junior and senior years.

“Impressive,” the man states, chuckling. “GPA?”

Peter beams, because he knows he’s got a good shot at getting in. “3.8, unweighted.”

“Uh-huh. You take the SAT or ACT yet?”

“No, but I’m taking an SAT class this summer.” He leaves out the part about missing his originally scheduled safety test because of DKA, or diabetic ketoacidosis.

He’s not ready to disclose that to his potential colleges yet. Tony said he didn’t have to, that it was probably best that he just applied for accommodations later.

“What’s that you got there?” he asks, nodding toward Peter’s hip.

Peter’s flustered all of a sudden, nearly drops the brochure because he’s so thrown off by the question. It’s not the first time he’s been asked, but it always seems to jostle him, reminds him that his disease is sometimes visible. “Oh, that’s uh, just my insulin pump.”

“You diabetic?”

“Type one?” Peter answers, not sure where the conversation is going. He half-expects the man to ask something completely inaccurate and off-based like, “Did you eat too much candy as a kid?” Instead, he watches the man’s excitement fade. A pit forms in his stomach.

“You know you can’t fly commercially with that, right? And the military is definitely off the table.”

Peter swallows as the words sink in. It’s like all of the air in his lungs has disappeared and he can’t get them to expand to take any more in. He hasn’t realized this monumental truth until just now, didn’t even think about it with everything that’s been going on the last few months. Tony’s let him get back to light Spiderman patrols, sure, but Peter had failed to factor in how this would affect his future outside of the Avengers, outside of the protective bubble that is May and Tony.

The man must be able to see the shock on his face, because he’s suddenly sighing and shaking his head. “Shit, kid, you didn’t know? I’m sorry. Maybe in the future, you know?”

They stand in awkward silence as Peter grips the brochure, waves of heat moving through his body as he tries to dim the panic in his chest.

“T-thank you for your time,” he manages, voice cracking, before he wills his legs to move.

“We have more than just pilot programs,” the man’s calling out, but Peter’s on autopilot, is moving through the crowd toward the gym doors, and then down the hallway toward the bathroom.

X

Peter tries to focus on the coding in front of him while Tony talks him through a new line, but his head is still buzzing from his conversation with the man from Embry Riddle earlier today at the college fair.

“Earth to Peter,” Tony comments playfully, flicking him on the head.

“Ow!” he yelps, pulling away.

“Hey, you feel low?” Tony asks, worry etching his features as he checks his StarkWatch for Peter’s Dexcom number.

“No,” Peter groans angrily, blinking his eyes to refocus on the screen and keyboard in front of him. “I’m not low! Not everything is about diabetes!”

Tony looks back at Peter with a shocked expression, "Wow, okay then!" He continues on with a chuckle and "What crawled up your webbing and died, Spider Brat?"

Peter's not in the mood to deal with Tony's sarcasm at the moment, so he replies exasperatedly with "Can we just get back to the coding?"

“You mean the coding that’s got the same five lines repeated because you’re lost in space, or–”

Peter leans forward and reads through the lines in front of him, has to suppress a disappointed sigh when he realizes Tony’s right.

“What’s eating you, Gilbert Grape?” Tony asks, throwing an apple in the air and catching it before taking a bite. “Decathlon? AP exams? No wait, you took those last week.”

“No.” Peter exhales and rubs his face. “Nothing is wrong.”

“Is it a girl?” He takes another bite and plops himself onto the worktable beside the computer. “Or a guy?”

“Ugh, Tony!” Peter whines, throwing his arms out. “No, it’s not...it’s nothing romantic. It’s...nothing at all, really. I’m just tired.”

“Tired isn’t in your vocabulary, kid. Your mouth still runs a mile a minute on two hours of sleep. You, my friend, have been as quiet as a church mouse since you got home from school today, which means something is wrong. And judging by your lack of focus and how swollen your eyelids are, I’m going to guess that it’s not just academics.”

“I’m fine, Tony.”

He starts with a laugh, but it melts, turns into a sad sigh as Tony puts his apple down on the worktable. “Kiddo, you know that you can talk to me about the health stuff, right?” he asks after a moment. “If it’s confusing, or it feels like too much, or if there’s something like what happened with your math teacher…”

Peter examines his hands in his lap. “I know.”

“What we go through,” Tony starts, sighing again. “It’s not easy, kid. And pretending it’s easy only makes it worse.”

“I know.”

“It’s not healthy to keep it all in and ignore what your body and mind are telling you.”

Peter knows what Tony’s getting at. They’ve had this conversation before. The worst had been at a restaurant a month ago when Peter _knew_ that his drink wasn’t diet despite the waiter’s insistence that it was. He’d had half of it anyway, tried to convince himself it was fine because he didn’t want to be a pest. Dexcom had him at 300 with double up arrows within twenty minutes. The meal had ended before it began with Tony threatening the restaurant with his lawyers. 

“It’s just,” Peter starts, debating whether or not it’s worth it to go _there_. 

Tony raises his eyebrows as if to say, “ _It’s okay, go on._ ”

So he does. “It’s just that I had this plan. Ben and I had this _whole plan_ ,” Peter says, on the verge of tears as he runs his palms up and down the front of his jeans in an effort to calm himself down. He’s taking deep breaths, knows he looks seconds away from completely falling apart again.

It’s the mention of Ben that throws Tony off guard, though, has him tilting his head like Morgan does when she’s confused.

Peter sniffles, holds back his tears. “We were both super into aeronautics and NASA and stuff. We’d build model airplanes and he’d take me on these weekend trips to Long Island or Washington D.C. so we could go to the air and space museums. Did you know Grumman on Long Island was part of the Space Race?” His voice is shaking, but he takes a deep breath to steady himself and continue. “Anyway, one time he took me to Houston, because he had a work conference or something, and it was…it was _amazing_ getting to see Mission Control. It was like my childhood dream come true. I think about that trip a lot when I miss him. _All_ of those trips were full of happy memories. Flying was our _thing_ , you know? It was ours and then he died and I didn’t know what to do. May pushed me to apply to Midtown, which is insanely difficult to get into, and it’s where Ben went and everything. After he died, I promised him I was gonna do well there and get into Embry Riddle, get my pilot’s license and maybe eventually get to NASA and go to space. That was the plan. It was all going to be forBen, you know? It’s all I had left of him and now it’s just… _gone_ …” The tears press heavily as he looks away, his body completely still for fear they’ll come loose.

“You’ve already been to space, kiddo,” Tony says, but his soft smile falls.

“No, Tony,” Peter says, swallowing slowly with his eyes glassy as he tries to come up with a way to explain what, exactly, he means. “I can’t… _do_ any of that now.”

Peter can tell that Tony’s first instinct is to tell him that, _yes_ , _yes_ he can, if he _really_ wants to, if he puts in the time and the hard work like he always does, but it’s not until Tony’s jaw clenches that Peter knows Tony understands how undeniably wrong he is this time, understands _exactly_ what Peter’s saying now.

You can’t become a commercial pilot with type one diabetes.

And you sure as hell can’t go to _space_ with it.

“I made a promise to Ben, and n-now I can’t keep it,” he says, all of the pent up frustration and anger flooding out in long, terrible sobs. He was hoping it wouldn’t happen until he was alone in his room, the lights off, but now it’s too late. The flood gates have opened. There’s no closing them now.

“Hey,” Tony says, scooting closer and placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I never met Ben, but from what you and May have told me, he doesn’t seem like the type who would be angry at you for any of this. And you’re still a kid, Peter–”

“A kid who has to decide where he’s applying to college in the next six months!” he says with an edge and tears in his eyes. “A kid who has to decide what he’s going to do for the rest of his life!”

“I do have some pull at MIT, you know,” Tony says softly. “They have some great aeronautics programs–”

“I want to be a pilot, Tony.”

“You can be _my_ pilot.”

“No! I know I can get a private license. I looked it up! I spent hours scouring the Internet searching for good news and there isn’t any. A private license is _not the same_. It’s not what I want! And it’s not fair! _None_ of this has been fair and I don’t want to complain because my life isn’t really that bad at all, but I feel like nothing good has happened in months! I feel like I have the worst luck, the shittiest Parker luck, and every time I try to do something good, it’s not enough because more bad shit happens. It’s like I’m not…not _good enough_ to deserve good things or something…even though I try to do _so much good_ …” He places his head in his hands, cries the rest of the big, ugly tears that have been building up inside of him all afternoon.

“Peter, you are the goodest person I know. And I’m not just saying that because you’re here and breaking down on me.”

“ _Goodest isn’t even a word_.” Peter’s voice sounds tight.

“Fine, then you’re the _best_ person I know.”

“I’m sure that statement would make Pepper feel great,” he grumbles though his tears.

“Pepper is a good person, and I love her, but you have this… _thing_ about you where you just won’t stop until the right thing is done, and it’s not that Pepper and other people don’t have that, but it’s that you embody it and you live it and you _deserve good things_ , Peter. I don’t know why this happened. I mean, scientifically, we know why this happened, but on a bigger scale, no, I don’t know why any of the shitty things that have happened to you happened, and if I could go back and undo them, all of them, I would. I’d do it for you if that’s what you wanted, but I couldn’t promise that it’d actually fix anything or that other shitty stuff wouldn’t happen.” He sighs heavily. “I don’t know where I’m going with this.”

“I’m not asking you to fix this.”

“Then what are you asking me, kiddo?”

“I’m not asking you anything, I’m just telling you what’s going on in my head right now.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. And, I don’t know, I guess I just wish Ben were here.” He shrugs. “There’s a lot I wish I could tell him, talk to him about.”

“I know I’m not Ben, Pete. I couldn’t ever pretend to be. But I’m here, and I care a lot, and if you need someone to talk to, doesn’t matter when or what it’s about, I’d listen.”

“I know. And thank you. You…you’ve already done so much for me, Tony. I can’t keep expecting you to just–”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Understand?”

Peter looks up, studies the scarring that covers the right side of Tony’s face and trails down his neck, hides beneath the collar of his t-shirt, and reappears on his forearm and hand. 

“Y-yeah.”

“Whatever the future holds for you, kiddo, it has to be what _you_ want. Not what May or I want for you. Not what Ben wanted for you. If I’ve learned anything during my own health crap, it’s that there are going to be things we can’t do sometimes and that’s okay. People love to tell us how we should live with chronic illness and disability. They love stories of people not letting anything stop them from living their dreams. They put all of this focus on overcoming it, but they don’t realize that not everything is necessarily meant to be overcome. It’s kind of like the conversation we had about whether or not this stuff defines us. _You_ get to choose how you feel about this, Peter. It’s okay if your feelings about it change over time, too. I’m not saying don’t dream or reach for the stars. I’m not saying give up on the things you truly want to do. If you want to fight this ban on pilots with diabetes, I’d be happy to get my lawyers on it and help you and other people give a big “fuck you” to diabetes. But like I was saying, it’s okay if you find new dreams because you hit barriers. And it’s okay to grieve the things you once wanted.”

“C-can I think about it? The lawyer thing?”

“Of course. Take your time, kiddo.” Tony lifts his right arm at a slight angle and grimaces slightly. “You know, some days, I can raise my arm this much. Other times, I can’t do it at all. Sometimes, adapting is easy and mindless, but other times, I get frustrated over something that would seem small to other people but feels huge to me in the moment. I’d be lying if I said Pepper has never had to hold me like I held you the other night after your site changes. What you’re going through and feeling is real, Peter. There are people who have been through what we’ve been through, felt what we’ve felt. And then there are people who go their entire lives without experiencing any of it. They try to understand, but it can be hard to explain. And I know that we deal with different things. I never mean to dismiss your personal experiences when I talk about mine. But there are parallels between us. Themes. We struggle with similar things. Like asking for help. Thinking we’re inconveniencing other people with our health stuff or hiding it that others can’t see and judge it. Pretending we’re fine when we’re not because it’s easier in the moment. Apologizing for things we can’t control. 

“The other day I found myself apologizing during a meeting because I couldn’t get a good grip on my StarkPad to show a client something. It was like my fingers and my brain weren’t even connected. But the truth is, we have nothing to apologize for. For months after everything with Thanos, I longed to be in my lab. I used to dream about it, felt the muscle memory come back to me. That’s about the time I started seeing a therapist.” Peter’s head lifts at the new information. “Yes, yours truly saw a therapist. It was one of the best things I ever did. And you know what she said to me after I sobbed to her like you just did? She said, “Tony, you have value no matter what. Whether you have an arm, lose it, or it’s never the same again.” She was right. We still have value, kiddo, even if our health stuff makes us feel like we don’t or keeps us from doing things. _You_ still matter, Peter, even if you can’t be a pilot. Even if you feel like you’re letting Ben down, which you’re not. You’re like me in the sense that you’re hard on yourself on the inside. You say things to yourself that you wouldn’t say to anyone else. Maybe I’m wrong about this, but it seems like you’re putting pressure on yourself to be Peter from a few months ago. It’s what I did for a long time. I had to learn that it’s okay to change and grow around what happens to you. That’s why May and I want you to see a therapist or attend the group at Children’s.”

“The ultimatum.”

Tony sighs. “It’s not an ultimatum.”

Only it is. And Peter isn’t sure what he wants anymore. Hell, he can barely tell the sky from the ground right now. He’s not used to his brain feeling so jumbled, to his thoughts and emotions bundling into a giant ball of confusing chaos. Untangling all of this feels overwhelming, like it won’t actually get him anywhere in the end.

“How about we switch gears. I could go for some ice cream right about now,” Tony announces, kicking his legs back and forth on the counter like a little kid. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, but we can pretend it does. Plus, it’s better than that fro-yo crap Pepper and Morgan love. You in?”

Peter wipes under his eyes with his fingertips, sniffles, and nods. “Yeah, ice cream sounds perfect, actually.” His voice cracks again, but he’s no longer sobbing, so there’s that.

He doesn’t even let himself think about how much he’s going to have to bolus to cover the carb count on the sundae he’s imagining in his head or how long he’s going to have to wait after bolusing before eating.

Ice cream is ice cream, Peter decides as they take the elevator up to the residence, the lab, coding, and future beyond ice cream happily forgotten for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and comments. Subscribe for email updates!
> 
>  **Playlist, Part 1:**  
>  1\. "Outnumbered" by Dermot Kennedy  
> 2\. “Walking the Wire” by Imagine Dragons  
> 3\. “Won’t Stop Running” by A Great Big World  
> 4\. "Learn to Dance" by Andrew McMahon  
> 5\. “Head Above Water” by Avril Lavigne (feat. We the Kings)  
> 6\. “Swim” by Jack’s Mannequin  
> 7\. “You Say” by Lauren Daigle  
> 8\. “Seasons” by NEEDTOBREATHE  
> 9\. "Sailboat" by Ben Rector  
> 10\. “Giants” by Jackson Guthy
> 
>  **Link:**  
>  https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6x8UD34QpzUt32jA5O2ggq?si=cjh041A5SxOUvtI3hB41_g


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to share something that took me years to learn:
> 
> People can have different experiences even though they have the same disease. One person with lupus might have the classic butterfly rash and joint pains while the other experiences fevers and joint pains. One might do monthly infusions while the other takes weekly injections. There may be overlap in the overall presentation of the disease, but the journeys and treatment decisions can look vastly different. Some people with diabetes don't feel low at 50. I start to feel nauseated and get a hazy headache around 70. Some prefer injections while others prefer pumps. Some find Dexcom overwhelming because of the constant numbers, arrows, and alarms, so they prefer fingersticks or use another CGM system to monitor their blood sugar.
> 
> This is the nature of chronic illness and disability. It's individual despite the label, despite the treatment. It changes over time, morphing into something new while also staying the same. The emotions that come with it are complex and important to acknowledge.
> 
> In this story, Peter is newly diagnosed and trying to figure out the best way to do this thing he doesn't want to have to do. He knows a life from Before diabetes and feels that world has been flipped upside down in more ways than one. He's an enhanced individual with a fast metabolism who's also honeymooning (making some insulin) and experiencing so many things, physical and emotional, that he can't always control. He's trying to make sense of what has happened. He feels like he is losing parts of himself.
> 
> Peter is actively grieving.
> 
> Social Work Today magazine featured a great article titled "Grieving Chronic Illness and Injury — Infinite Losses" by Kate Jackson in 2014. She writes, "Depending on the nature of the illness, these losses may include comfort, sexual function, career, income, self-efficacy, freedom, cognitive function, intimacy, pride, joy, self-esteem, self-control, independence, mental health, hope, dignity, and certainty. In the most extreme cases, one illness may bring about all of these losses, sometimes over and over again in many ways."
> 
> I'm not writing this story to make Peter look inspirational.
> 
> I'm not writing this to host a pity party for him.
> 
> I'm not writing it to say one can't live a good life with a chronic illness or disability.
> 
> Heavens no.
> 
> I'm writing it because the emotions Peter feels are real for many with chronic illness and disability. As time passes, it gets easier but also doesn't. There are losses you can't get back and new things you gain. These gains are not always monumental. They don't always make everything better. He has a robust support system, but they aren't always perfect people. They don't always understand what he's going through even though they want to help.
> 
> Grief can come in cycles.
> 
> I guess I'm saying this because I don't want people to think that Peter's story exists in a vacuum just because it's fic. Loss creates ripples. Those ripples are infinite. There might not be closure in the way most people think of closure. Peter's realizing this but hasn't been able to verbalize it fully. And that's okay.
> 
> This story is Peter's journey. It might not be mine or yours, and that's okay, too.
> 
> I've been wanting to get that out for a while now.
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you for reading this fic. It means so much to me.
> 
> Huge thank you to LyraLollygagger for her help with this chapter!

“Daddy!” Morgan screams, and it’s the _urgency_ in it that fills him with the coldest dread.

“Morgan?” he yells, ripping his reading glasses off and running toward the sound of her voice. “Morgan? What’s wrong, baby?”

“Da- _DDY_!” She’s wailing, her cries echoing through the house. “Da- _DDY_!”

“Sir,” FRIDAY announces through his StarkWatch as he winds his way through the hallway. “You have multiple Dexcom alarms from Peter. There’s an Urgent Low Glucose alert and a Fall Rate alert. He’s currently 58 mg/dL and dropping at a rate of 3 mg/dL per minute.”

_Shit. Had he been so engrossed in his article that he’d missed the alerts?_

He nearly trips on Peter’s backpack as he bounds into the living room, which is where he finds Morgan screaming and shaking as tears stream down her face. “He’s sick, Daddy! P-Peter’s _sick_!”

“Pete?” Tony’s voice booms through the house as he pulls Morgan into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist, but there’s no answer.

When he turns the corner into the kitchen, he sees why she’s so panicked: Peter is slumped as he sits against the wall, face pale and sweaty, eyes half-lidded.

“Jesus,” Tony says as he squats down to be eye-level with Peter, Morgan wrapping herself tightly around her father in fear. “FRIDAY just said you were 58 and dropping, kiddo. You still with me?”

Peter groans as he blinks his eyes open.

“Morgan, honey, I need you to get me two juice boxes from the pantry,” he says softly, attempting to peel her away from him. “Can you do that for Daddy?”

“Is Peter okay?” she says, sniffing, tightening her grip.

“Peter’s gonna be fine, but I need you to get that juice for me, okay?”

She nods, and Tony can sense her reluctance, but she lets go, wipes her face, still sniffling, of course, and brushes her hair out of her eyes before running over to the pantry.

“Didn’t quite make it to the fridge, did you?” he asks Peter to lighten the tone.

“M’low,” Peter says, words slurring.

“Yeah, I know, kiddo,” he says, sighing. “Did your basal pause yet?”

“Mmm?” Peter asks, or rather, _hums_ , and it’s only then that Tony realizes how disoriented the kid is. He reaches for Peter’s pump clipped to his hip, clicks through the prompts on the screen, and makes sure Peter’s pump has automatically suspended insulin while they work to get his low blood sugar up. When Morgan returns, he unwraps one of the straws and pops it into a juice box.

“Good job, Morgan. Thank you,” he says to her, and she beams, kneels down beside them as Tony brings the straw to Peter’s lips.

“Don’t…feel so good,” Peter mumbles. He takes a few sips before letting the straw fall from his lips. “Dizzy.” He’s breathing heavy, looks and sounds like he just ran a marathon, and Tony’s stomach drops when Peter’s head starts to loll to the side.

“Gotta keep drinking,” Tony coaxes, pushing the straw back to Peter’s lips as he supports Peter’s head.

“No,” Peter moans, but he sips anyway.

“Baby, can you get Peter’s backpack? I think I saw it in the living room.”

She nods, gets to her feet, and hurries off, Tony focusing back on Peter, who is pushing the straw away with his tongue.

“Don’t wanna gluc you unless I have to, kiddo. Keep drinking for me.”

The mention of emergency glucagon turns Peter’s eyes wide. “N-no,” he says, groaning. “ _Please_ don’t. I’ll go… _so high_ …”

Tony gives a small smile; a little pushback and response with body language gives him hope that maybe Peter’s levels are rising. He hears Peter sip the juice box dry and pulls it away.

Morgan returns dragging Peter’s heavy backpack across the floor with both hands, tongue between her lips as she musters the strength to pull it one last foot into the kitchen.

“What do you have in here, Thor’s hammer?” Tony jokes when he takes it from Morgan, and Peter gives a pitiful huff. “Gonna test you, okay?” he asks, and Peter doesn’t answer, just sits with his eyes closed as Tony pulls his kit out, readies a strip, and pricks the side of his middle finger on his free hand. A moment later, there’s a beep. “45?! What the fuck? You were just 58 ten minutes ago _and_ had juice!”

“Mommy says that’s a bad word,” Morgan chimes as she kneels beside Tony.

“Yeah, well, fuck diabetes,” Tony grumbles in frustration. He checks the Dexcom app on Peter’s phone, sees that it says he’s LOW, which means his sensor thinks he’s below 40, and shakes his head, knowing that it can be inaccurate when Peter’s blood sugar is so low. “How many carbs are in this juice?” He picks it up, sees that it says 8 grams, not 15 like the ones Pepper used to buy, and sighs. The kid needed 15 grams twenty minutes ago, Tony thinks, is probably staying so low because he’s honeymooning and still releasing some insulin. He digs through Peter’s gray “Dexcom Warrior” bag for all of his low snacks, finds the tube of glucose tabs meant for this exact situation, and puts one at Peter’s lips. “Chew.”

Peter scowls but complies, makes a face at the tanginess of the tab on his tongue. “S’gross,” he complains between chews.

“Just until I can get some crackers to get you up and keep you up,” Tony explains. “Peanut butter or cheese?”

Peter shakes his head. “Neither. Nauseous.”

“You’ve gotta eat, kiddo.”

“I’m _fine_.”

“Yeah, that’s the low talking.”

“Leave me alone, Tony!” he grumbles, swatting him away. “Why are you always so fucking annoying?!”

Morgan’s eyes widen in surprise at Peter’s exclamation, clearly not used to seeing this behavior coming from him.

“Hey, cut the sass, Spider Brat,” Tony warns, though he knows Peter’s not usually like this, especially in front of Morgan. _It’s just the low_ , he reminds himself. “Gotta pick one or I’ll pick for you.” 

“Ugh,” he whines. “Fine. Peanut butter.”

The Dexcom app beeps four times to remind them he’s urgently low, Peter scrunching his eyes and holding his hands over his ears. The sound is like ice picks to his brain, his Spidey senses overwhelmed by the noise.

“Can you grab some of Peter’s crackers?” Tony asks Morgan as gently as he can. He knows he scared her with his _fuck diabetes_ comment, that Peter’s attitude has her on edge. He watches as she curls her fingers around her mouth out of nervousness.

“Do you want me to call Uncle Brucey?” she asks, not pulling her hands away. “Is Peter really sick?”

“I’m okay, Mo. Jus’ really…low,” Peter huffs out, eyes open but droopy. “Come ‘ere.” He reaches for her, lets her tuck herself beneath his right arm. “Sorry I scared you.”

Tony’s half alert and focused on getting those peanut butter crackers from the pantry, half trying to drink in the cuteness that is Peter’s relationship with Morgan. He remembers holding her in the middle of the night shortly after they brought her home, sobbing silently at the thought that Peter, the closest thing he’d ever had to a son, would never get to meet her. It feels otherworldly to have them together, Tony thinks, Morgan always so inquisitive, Peter ever patient with her in all of these little ways that warm his heart.

Tony’s forced two peanut butter crackers on Peter by the time Pepper arrives home from work because he dropped again into the 50s, even with the juice and glucose tab. It’s his honeymooning, Tony knows. _And_ Peter’s fast Spidey metabolism. Pepper stumbles upon them sitting on the floor of the kitchen with wrappers and test strips strewn about.

“What in the world?!” she exclaims, her heels clicking across the floor. It takes her a moment to put the pieces together. “Oh, Peter!” Her voice softens. “Are you okay, honey?”

He gives her a thumbs up and finishes chewing the dry cracker and peanut butter in his mouth.

Tony pricks Peter’s finger again and applies the drop of blood to the strip. “Peter’s lows have become a family affair, apparently,” Tony jokes, waiting for the meter to countdown, beep, and show a number. 80 appears on the screen. He exhales triumphantly. “Thank God. Thought we’d be stuck in the 50s forever.”

“He was in the 50s?!” Pepper asks, incredulous. “Didn’t his Dexcom alert? Why didn’t I get an alert?!” She rummages through her bag, pulls out her phone, and scrolls through her Share app settings. “Shit! I must’ve turned off alerts for a meeting and never put them back on.”

“Mommy!” Morgan reprimands.

Pepper closes her eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. “Sorry, baby. Mommy’s exhausted from work and worried about Peter. Wasn’t exactly expecting to come home to this.”

Peter bites his lip and looks down in embarrassment; his legs are sprawled out in front of him and there are cracker crumbs down the front of his shirt. _If he’d felt and heard the signal loss alerts on the subway, if his sensor hadn’t gone into error and stopped reading, if he’d been able to figure out the right basals and boluses to keep him from dropping so low so quickly weeks ago, if he was able to feel his lows coming on_ …

“Oh, honey, I didn’t mean….” She sighs and puts on a classic Pepper smile when she realizes he’s blaming himself. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not your fault. I didn’t mean to make it seem like it was.”

He nods, acknowledging her words, but he still feels off, even with the fingerstick confirming that he’s coming up. “H-how many carbs did I eat?”

“8…4…21 times 2…” Tony mumbles to himself, trying to calculate. It’s simple math, but his brain is still running in circles from the panic.

“54,” Pepper says for him. “Did you try the new juice boxes? I bought the organic ones…”

“With only 8 grams of sugar in them,” Tony says with a small laugh. “And organic isn’t better, Pep. We’ve discussed this. You know we have a kid who needs at least 15 grams of quick acting sugar when he drops, sometimes even more.”

Peter closes his eyes, bracing for the start of another fight.

He loves the idea of being one of theirs, even if it’s metaphorical, but he _hates_ witnessing Tony and Pepper argue. They’re great at it, at pulling each other apart and slamming doors in each other’s faces. That, and this isn’t the first time Peter’s diabetes has been a point of contention.

He doesn’t want to be present for the first shot fired.

He doesn’t want to feel like it’s his fault that they’re going to fight again, either. Tony keeps telling him to work on stopping those kinds of thoughts about himself, those pesky, guilt-ridden, blameful thoughts that therapy is supposed to help.

He wonders why he can’t do this on his own yet, the lows and the emotional stuff, when he’s going to have to at some point. Why, no matter how much logic he throws at it, doesn’t it compute?

“Gonna go take a nap,” Peter says, attempting to hold the bottom of his shirt out to catch the crumbs that have gotten stuck near the collar as he tries to get up. His body sways when he’s halfway there, his sneaker slipping on the tile, body tumbling forward until Tony’s left arm instinctively reaches out to steady him.

Peter had seen Tony reach his right arm out and make the last-second choice to switch. Tony, he knows, would gladly have thrown his right arm out if it meant catching Peter.

It only makes him feel worse.

He needs a fucking nap.

That’s his go-to lately.

Naps. Like he’s Morgan’s age.

He’s always exhausted now, physically and emotionally. He’s tired of being so aware of all of the ways his life has changed. Tired of dragging everyone around him down.

Tired of feeling like he’s never going to be independent ever again.

He shakes the crumbs out into the garbage can and trudges to his bedroom.

X

“Tony?” Peter mumbles sleepily hours later after he feels someone prick his finger. He raises his free hand up to shield his eyes from the lamplight.

Tony holds a hand up to Peter’s forehead, as if to check for a fever. “Hey, kiddo. How’re you feeling?”

Peter turns over into his pillow. “Think God hates me?”

Tony chuckles. “Thought you didn’t believe in God.” The glucose meter beeps. “102. Nice and steady.”

“Yeah, well,” Peter says, licking his dry lips. “This kinda sucks and it keeps happening, so I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

“You’ve gotta learn to advocate, kiddo. You can’t just wait until you’re halfway to the fridge looking for orange juice, hoping someone will find you. I’m only a text away. Hell, yell for FRIDAY and she’ll tell me to come. I still can’t believe I never got any Dex alarms.”

“My sensor went into error on the subway, that’s probably why. It told me to wait 30 minutes. The subway’s gross and I didn’t want to fingerstick. Thought I could…get home in time,” he says quietly. “I thought maybe if I could prove I was independent enough, you and May wouldn’t be so worried about States this weekend, you know?”

“I get it Underoos. I do.”

“I can do this on my own.”

“I know you can, Peter.”

“Do you, though? Because it doesn’t always feel like it. Like right now, it doesn’t.” His bedroom is warm, but he pulls his covers up to his chin anyway. “It didn’t earlier.” Tony doesn’t answer right away, which prompts Peter to add, “Sometimes it just gets tricky and what worked last time suddenly doesn’t. It’s like an experiment with too many variables. It’s like…like…”

“Chaos theory.”

“Y-yeah. And even though I _know_ I can’t control every little thing, I still feel shitty when it all goes haywire. Physically and mentally. It makes me feel like I fucked up. Like I didn’t do enough to stop it.”

“I feel the same way sometimes.”

“I know. You keep saying that.” Peter plays with a loose thread on his pillowcase. “I guess I’m just…not where you are yet.”

Tony sighs softly. “We aren’t competing against each other, kiddo. And sadly, this isn’t something that either of us are going to win. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. Sometimes it’ll feel like you’re doing this on your own, but know that you’ve got a full support team behind you.”

Peter looks over at the duffel bag in the corner by the door, the one they’d packed and repacked with everything imaginable the night prior.

“W-what if,” Peter starts, nervous.

“What if,” Tony interrupts, eyebrows raised, “you have a great time with your friends. What if, even if you go low or high and it’s frustrating sometimes, you still have the trip of a lifetime.”

“It’s Albany, Tony. Not Paris,” he jokes. “I guess I just don’t want this to get in the way, is all. I just want one good thing that diabetes doesn’t ruin, you know?”

“You’ve got way more than one good thing, Underoos. No matter what.”

Tony calling him Underoos reminds him of Spiderman. He thinks back to that day in Berlin when he stole Cap’s shield. Peter pulls his lips in and takes a deep breath. “I haven’t been on patrol in nearly two weeks,” he says. 

“You’ve been busy.”

 _I’ve been scared_ , Peter wants to say. _Scared to be alone on patrol and not have anyone get there in time if I need help, like I did today._

“Oh, and no disappearing on your trip this time to play Spiderman. I can’t handle a heart attack.”

Peter knows exactly what Tony means; he’s got a habit of disappearing on school trips. Jokingly, he adds, “Since when–”

Tony puts a hand up. “Kiddo, don’t even. May and I aren’t dumb. And there was that time we met up, in Central Park, with the robot and Strange. Weren’t you on a trip to MoMA?”

“Oh, yeah, the “strange” wizard,” Peter says, chuckling. “But what if there’s a hybrid human-alien mega-robot threatening to destroy all of humankind while I’m away?!”

“You sure you don’t have a fever?” Tony jokes, putting a hand up to Peter’s forehead again. He does this sometimes and it’s annoying, but Peter knows it’s because a fever can mess with his blood sugar, with his insulin. A simple virus can land him in MedBay with ketones, even if he does everything right.

“Like you said,” Peter says, taking Tony’s hand down. “My blood sugar is 102 and steady. No fever. I’m okay.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Tony says, ruffling Peter’s hair. 

It’s so easy to get wrapped up in the panic of this disease sometimes, Peter thinks. Maybe it’s because they both have the brain of an engineer, always troubleshooting, trying to foresee the next issue before it even arises. That’s what they’ve tried to do for this trip. He knows that Tony’s planned for every misadventure that diabetes might throw, and maybe that’s why he finds himself suddenly confident.

Technology fails him sometimes, sure, but he’s glad that he’ll have Dexcom working in tandem with his pump to help him on the trip. It’ll work while he’s sleeping, competing, and sightseeing, monitoring his levels and adjusting his insulin 24-7 with a few manual adjustments here and there, mostly when it’s time to eat. FRIDAY’s connected on his StarkWatch, and, subsequently, to Tony and May, if he needs them. They’ve packed juice boxes, glucose tabs, glucagon, and extra Dexcom sensors and pump sets just in case. He’ll keep his insulin in a freezer bag until they get to the hotel. Harrington has Tony and May’s cell numbers, has assured them that this isn’t his first rodeo with a student with diabetes on a field trip. 

He has one day between now and boarding the bus for Albany. One day until he puts on his yellow decathlon team jacket to compete and kick ass.

Tony and May won’t be there, but maybe that’s okay. 

Maybe, Peter thinks, he has to try this on his own with the support he already has and see what happens. 

Challenge accepted.

X

Tony’s cell phone rings mid-meeting with General Dynamics. He’s just about to send the call to voicemail when he sees that it’s Peter. Excusing himself, he ducks out and into his office for privacy. He glances at his watch as he picks up the call; the competition was supposed to start at 10:00 AM sharp. It’s 9:50. “Kiddo? Aren’t you supposed to be competing right now?”

“T-they denied my accommodations,” he stammers, the shock evident in his voice. “They said it n-needed to be submitted f-four months in advance.”

“You weren’t diagnosed four months ago!” The pitch of Tony’s voice rises, but it’s not directed toward Peter.

“That’s what we told them!” Peter relays. “Mr. Harrington has the paperwork from Bruce and Dr. Cho, but they’re not...they’re not gonna let me compete unless I take my pump off!” There’s panic in his voice now. Tony can hear him panting through the phone, imagines him on the verge of tears.

This is the last thing Peter needs right now.

“Fucking Hell! Are they serious?! It’s not like you can cheat with it! It’s not a graphing calculator, for fucks sake!”

“They said they can’t guarantee that and it’s not... _fair_ to the other participants.”

“Fair? It’s not _fair_?!” Tony puffs. “As if any of this is _fair_ for you!”

“I’ve been over 250 all day, from nerves, a-and I don’t feel great. _I just want to compete_ ,” Peter explains, exasperated. “I’ve been studying for _months_!”

“I know you have, Underoos,” Tony assures him. “You’ve worked so hard for this!”

“I don’t want to let my team down!” he says, sniffling. “They’re relying on me for the p-physics questions! T-they’re gonna be one man d-down! All because of my stupid diabetes!”

“Hey,” Tony says softly, trying to calm Peter down. He knows the kid doesn’t like crying in public, and he doesn’t want a repeat of Peter’s breakdowns while he’s so far away. “You have _every right_ to be out there with your peers, diabetes or not! I can’t believe they’re being so ridiculous about this! I’m going to call my lawyer and get his team on this immediately–”

“No, it’s fine!” Peter says, panicked at the thought of involving lawyers. “I’ll just t-take my p-pump off–“

“This is _not_ fine, Peter! And you are _not_ taking your pump off! This is discrimination and it’s illegal! I want to speak to an official.”

“No!” Peter protests. “Y-you can’t, then they _really_ won’t let me compete!”

“Is Mr. Harrington there? I’d like to get him on the phone, too.”

X

Five minutes later, Tony’s on speaker phone with Mr. Harrington and an official. He’s promised Peter he’ll hold off on the lawyer.

For now.

Peter stands off to the side, wringing his hands, trying to keep it together until a decision is made.

“It’s not fair to the other participants,” the official reiterates into Harrington’s phone.

Before Harrington can jump in, Tony’s voice blares through the speaker.

“Fair doesn’t mean equal,” Tony argues. “It means that everyone gets what they need to have access, and my son has every right to be out there on that stage competing with his peers! He’s protected by the Americans with Disabilities Act!”

Peter’s heart warms at Tony calling him his son, but the official’s next line has his heart sinking. 

“Sir, if he just takes off the device–”

Tony huffs. “So then I assume you’ll be taking your pancreas off for the duration of the competition as well?”

“Pardon?”

Tony snickers. “What, you think he wears an insulin pump for _fun_?”

“Sir, these rules are no different than that of the SAT and AP exams. Proper permission must be obtained four months–”

“For your information, he does have approved accommodations through the College Board. The same accommodations that your organization offered as reasonable when I called you back in March. However, from what you’re saying, we couldn’t have submitted the proper paperwork for your competition even if we had wanted to because he wasn’t diagnosed four months ago, only no one told me that throughout the entire application process!”

“Sir, I apologize, but there’s nothing I can do at this point. Being emotional is not going to change the facts here.”

“Emotional?! You know what has _nothing_ to do with emotion? The legal definition of accessibility. Your organization has a legal and ethical responsibility to uphold disability law!”

“With all due respect, sir,” the official chuckles, “your son is not disabled.”

“What did you just say?!” Tony asks, and that’s when Peter feels time stop.

The official clears his throat. “Diabetes is not a disability.”

“Legally, yes, it is. And it _definitely_ is when he’s denied access just for having it! The issue here is not my son, sir, but your sham of an organization! We submitted the appropriate documentation as soon as we were made aware of the necessity, which, to be honest, I find quite ridiculous given the fact that, for the rest of his life, my son will have to prove that he has medical needs and uses medical device in order to gain equal access to events such as yours! And further, our family was in the midst of a sudden and life-altering diagnosis when we completed that paperwork to guarantee Peter’s entrance to the competition only for it to be dismissed on a technicality we were never informed of. You asked and we delivered, and yet, that’s not enough, it seems.”

“I’m sorry that nothing else can be done at this time, Mister…” he asks, waiting for Tony to answer.

“Stark. Tony Stark.”

The official swallows, suddenly nervous. “I’m sorry that I can’t be of much help, Mr. Stark,” the official offers. It’s obvious that he’s hiding the fact that he knows who Tony is when his voice quakes. “We go through a careful review process with every request–”

“Request?” Tony asks. “Me advocating for my child with medical needs so that he can have the same access to a competition as everyone else is a _request_ to you? I’ll let my lawyers know and see what they think.”

“Sir–”

Peter has to walk away, can’t listen to Tony, Harrington, and the official battle it out anymore. He goes for the stage wings, feels like he should tell his team himself. It’s his fault, after all. He doesn’t want Harrington or MJ to have to do it for him.

“Peter, what’s going on?” Ned asks, a hand on his friend’s shoulder when he sees that something is wrong. His team is looking at him, too, waiting for an answer.

“They told me I can’t compete with m-my pump,” Peter explains, his voice high pitched as he tries not to cry in front of his teammates. “M-my blood sugar is running high today with all of the adrenaline and I can’t just take it off like they’re asking me to because the competition will take hours and I don’t want to get sick, so I have to…I have to drop out.”

“This is bullshit!” MJ calls out, visibly angry.

Peter gives a short recap of the conversation from the hallway. He includes the requesting accommodations four months prior rule, the thought that he might cheat, somehow, with his pump. He sniffles to keep from crying. “I-I’m so sorry. I really, really am.” A lump forms in his throat. “Flash is alternate. H-he can take my spot…” he trails before walking off.

He doesn’t want them to see him cry over this because he knows they won’t understand what this competition meant to him after everything the last few months.

And he doesn’t want to know what they think of him now.

They can compete without him, win without him.

They’ve done it before.

“Wait!” he hears Ned yell from behind him when he’s nearly halfway to the bathroom. “We decided to forfeit!” he announces.

Peter stops.

“W-what?!” Peter’s beyond panicked now, his heart rate picking up as he turns to face Ned.

“It was the right thing to do,” Ned explains. 

_No_ , Peter thinks. _No no no, this isn’t happening!_  
  
A moment later, Peter can see his team approaching in a sea of their yellow jackets as they exit the stage doors.

They think they’re doing something nice. The right thing. And they have. But it’s just making this a thousand times worse.

“No! Y-you guys should compete! I won’t take it personally! This isn’t fair to any of you!”

“It was MJ’s call, but we all voted unanimously,” Betty explains, shrugging. “There’s always next year.”

“It was _not_ unanimous and you know it!” Flash calls out angrily, pointing at MJ. He huffs. “I’m alternate, which means the second Peter dropped out, I was officially on the team!”

“Are you really that thick?” MJ says to Flash, rubbing her temple. “It doesn’t matter if you didn’t want to forfeit! We’re a _team_! If the officials won’t allow Peter to compete, then we, as a team, cannot go out there without him. It’s the principle!”

Flash looks around, confused. “The principal is here?!”

“Dudeeeee, how the _fuck_ did you get on this team?” Ned asks, throwing his head back.

“It’s a homophone,” Betty tries to explain calmly, but Flash is shaking his head as he backs away. 

“You know what’s actually bullshit? This right here! My father will hear about this!” he exclaims, storming off.

“Well, _that_ was very Draco Malfoy of him,” MJ says, snorting. 

Peter can’t help but give a small laugh. It doesn’t make him feel any better about the situation, not really, but he’s always been one to give credit where credit is due, and MJ _does_ dish it right back to Flash better than anyone else he’s ever met.

“You guys didn’t have to do this. Really. I-I won’t be mad if you don’t forfeit!” Peter tries, wringing his hands. 

MJ shrugs with her shoulders and head. “Too late. What’s done is done. Who’s hungry?” she asks, looking around.

Peter’s heart is still beating too fast, the lump in his throat growing.

If he was alone, and he wishes he was, he’d lower himself to the ground and curl into a ball to cry like he used to do when Ben and May first brought him home. When he couldn’t figure out what emotions he was feeling because he was still so little and would easily get overwhelmed by the constant noise in Forest Hills.

He knows it’s stupid. Childish. He _knows_.

It might be more than a decade since his parents died, and he might not remember much, but right now, in the middle of this school trip, he feels exactly like he did all of those years ago.

Only now he doesn’t have Ben or May here to hold him, nor Tony. He can’t fall apart about this right here, right now even though he wants to more than anything else. He has to hold it in.

Until he’s alone.

Until he can’t anymore.

X

Rather than watch the competition, MJ successfully petitions Harrington to let the team visit the New York State Capitol Building. “We are in Albany, after all. What better way is there to spend the day than learning more about our home state?” she asks while the team stands huddled in the hallway.

In the time it takes for the bus to be recalled, the shock of the situation wears off. His first instinct is to run, to find an alley, put on his suit, and spend the day swinging to forget reality.

But he promised Tony he wouldn’t ditch, no matter what.

“I read there’s an excellent exhibit on the Harlem Renaissance,” MJ mentions while everyone is finding their seats.

“If I wanted to learn about the Harlem Renaissance, I’d just take the 1 or 4 uptown until I hit Harlem,” Flash complains, kneeling so that he’s backward in his seat and facing everyone on the bus. “I came here to compete, not to tour the capitol building!” He rights himself and puts his AirPods on.

“Capitol with an o or an a?” MJ mumbles as she takes her backpack off. “Fuck it, he probably doesn’t even know the difference.” She shakes her head. It’s too low for everyone to hear over the bus motor, but Peter’s Spidey senses pick it up easily. He chuckles again, then gives a long, sad exhale.

He’s stuck on this bus, which means he’s stuck going on tours for the rest of the day. He thinks about lying, about saying he’s not feeling well and asking permission to go back to the hotel to rest. Technically, he’d be advocating for himself, just like Tony wants him to.

But he’d also be alone, without a chaperone, and he knows that won’t fly.

Not with his diabetes.

The truth is, he’s a liability. For being a teenager. For having type one.

The latter is exactly why they’re on the bus right now instead of competing for a spot at Nationals, isn’t it?

Nationals. He’s fucked up Nationals, too.

_Fuck._

He groans, wishes he could disappear.

Instead, he sinks low in his seat and covers his face.

So much for independence and doing this all on his own.

“Peter?” Ned asks, nudging him.

“Everyone hates me now,” he whispers from behind his hands.

_Don’t cry. Don’t cry._

“Dude, no one is mad at you!” Ned whispers back. “Seriously!”

“Flash is _definitely_ mad at me.”

“He’s an asshole that doesn’t count and you know it.”

“And MJ.”

“She’s the one who called for a forfeit. You should have heard her berate the officials after you left! She stood up for you! _We_ stood up for you! How could we be angry with you about something that you can’t control?”

Ned is right, but Peter’s in the least thankful mood he’s possibly ever been in. He’s both embarrassed and angry, secretly wishes Tony will swoop in and deliver him home so that he can avoid the next 24 hours on this trip. His bright yellow team jacket, the one he couldn’t wait to wear earlier today because it meant that all of his work with Tony would finally pay off, feels foolish even though everyone else is still wearing theirs.

His StarkWatch vibrates on his wrist. He expects it to be a Dexcom alert, but it’s a text from Tony.

_I’m going to do my best to fix this. Try not to worry. You deserve to have a good trip with your friends despite what happened today. None of this, and I mean absolutely NONE of this, is your fault, kiddo._

__The bus jolts forward.

 _The Goonies_ picks up where they left off on the overhead screens.

 _But technically, this_ is _my fault_ , Peter thinks.

He leans his head against the window, watches the buildings and trees fly by, and wishes his superpower was invisibility instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were in Peter's shoes, what would you do to try and make yourself feel better?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thank you so much for reading! Your comments have brought so many happy tears! :)
> 
> As a reminder, PLEASE read the author's notes at the start of each chapter. 
> 
> If you have nothing nice to say, please do not comment.
> 
> To summarize my previous author's notes:  
> 1\. I do not post on a schedule. I never have. I am chronically ill and my health is unpredictable. I will update when I update.  
> 2\. I am not looking for critiques or assessments of my writing. This is free, fun art, not Random House. I have some amazing people who beta for free and they deserve the world. (HDAnalyst, LyraLollygagger, and velvet-impala, I'm looking at you!) These kinds of comments will be deleted.  
> 3\. I am using the correct terms for type one diabetes because I feel strongly about educating others on this topic. This is how I work to combat ignorance. A commenter said that their screenreader was having a hard time with the terms. Mine does, too; I use a screen reader and dictation software to read/write. That said, I am not changing the vocabulary. I leave contextual clues throughout and use imagery to describe for a visual. For example, when I discuss honeymooning, I explain what it is in the same or next sentence. I repeat these explanations for emphasis and repeated exposure. I've done info drops where necessary to explain Peter's devices and how they loop.  
> 4\. Some commenters have been very concerned about the Lexile or reading level of my story. This fic reads at about a 4-6th grade reading level, depending on the chapter. I'm a licensed reading teacher working on a PhD in this area. This fic is currently at a Lexile similar to _Bridge to Terabithia._ While readability varies for a variety of reasons, most newspapers are generally written at a high school reading level. Fiction tends to have a lower readability level overall, but can be more complex thematically.  
> 5\. I do not condone forcing children to therapy. Parents aren’t perfect. They do things that they feel are right but can be harmful. They don’t know how else to help and are still learning, too. If you read this chapter closely, you’ll see that Peter chooses to go on his own. He knows that he hates how he is feeling and wants someone, anyone, to understand. He does not know anyone else with his disease. There is no more ultimatum. This will continue to be addressed in future chapters. I have attended multiple support groups. They are not a quick fix. They don’t always work out. I found one that did. Peter’s group is wildly imperfect but he is trying it out as one option right now.
> 
> For those who want a more comprehensive overview of the diabetes vocabulary, you can refer to this document I created: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JzW8NzTnv9rkL9SpkiS8FX5Xn--Pu9I2jH1P1TKjv-Y/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> If you'd like me to add anything to the document, leave it in the comments.

It’s Saturday morning, but it might as well be a Monday, Peter thinks, because halfway through a bowl of oatmeal at the kitchen island, Tony and May walk in together. May’s giving a sheepish smile, but Tony has his arms crossed against his chest.

As if things could get any worse than they were last weekend at States.

“What?” Peter asks, playing dumb even though he knows exactly what’s up.

Support group.

The one he’s supposed to be leaving for in less than an hour. Only he hasn’t showered yet, spent the last hour watching cartoons with Morgan with the hope that Tony would forget.

But now May is here, and he’s feeling a little stupid for assuming it would be any different.

He takes another spoonful because he needs to cover the insulin he’s just taken with carbs and mentally prepares himself for another lecture.

It’s always another lecture. 

_Change your lancet. Use an alcohol swab. Pre-bolus. Make sure you have everything before you leave the house. Charge your phone. Listen to your body. Plan ahead for that test before lunch so that you don’t go low. Make sure you’re at least 160 before exercise._ And, most recently, _we need to get your A1C down._

 __Blah blah blah.

Even with his lows, his A1C, which measures the average of his blood sugar levels over the past three months, is 9.5. That means he’s spending too much time in the mid-200s. It tends to get high at night, after dinner, and stay there.

“Ideally, it should be seven or lower,” Bruce had explained in Peter’s appointment this week. “I know we’re only a couple of months in, but if we don’t get this under control, especially with your Spidey metabolism–“

“I know, I know. Blindness, loss of limbs. You don’t have to keep reminding me,” Peter had mumbled. 

It’s not so much that Peter doesn’t want to face reality; it’s that he doesn’t know _how_. Not when this is still brand new and these complications won’t happen for years to come even if things continue to stay the same.

Some days, this doesn’t feel real. He wakes up and has that split second of bliss before he remembers.

Right now, though, it’s a little too real. 

Peter cuts the tension in the room with some sarcasm and a small laugh. “This feels a lot like an intervention.”

Tony’s jaw is set, but instead of angry, he looks sincerely concerned. “Deflecting with humor doesn’t magically make this all disappear, kiddo. We need to start dealing with this before it gets worse.”

Peter huffs, incredulous. “Worse? How could this possibly get any worse?! I’m superhuman, yet my immune system went haywire and attacked my own body! I was in a coma for two days only to wake up and find that I’m stuck with an incurable disease forever! I prick my fingers and inject myself with insulin and rely on devices to keep me alive 24/7! My life is a numbers game now! The carbs in a banana, what Dexcom says my blood sugar is, the micro units I bolus, my A1C! Over and over and over with no breaks! And then,” he yells, tears pricking his eyes, “everyone is on me about how I’m…how I’m _handling_ this, or not handling this, and so I finally admit that this is hard, and your answer is that I have to go talk to _strangers_ about everything! How could this possibly get any worse, Tony?!”

He wants so much for May to open her arms up and wrap them around him, shield him from the pain that he can’t even begin to describe. The pain that he pushes down every time it comes screaming to the surface when he loses another thing because of this stupid disease. But she doesn’t, and Peter is afraid that if he lifts his eyes to meet hers, he might never stop crying.

“We just felt like the support group could be a positive thing for you,” May coos. “You’ve been shutting everyone around you out to protect us, but we know, Peter. We know you’re not okay, and it’s alright to admit that.”

“I think I’m doing pretty damn well considering, but okay,” Peter whispers, taking a big spoonful of oatmeal.

“Stop with the snarky comments,” Tony replies. “And could you stop eating for a second and focus on the conversation at hand?”

“No, I can’t, because I just bolused and I don’t want to go low!” Peter throws back, shoving another spoonful into his mouth. “I’m not even hungry anymore,” he complains mid-chew, “but I don’t really have a choice. It’s like this all of the time! I never have a choice anymore! Not that either of you know what that’s like!”

He knows there’s no truth in his words, that it’s just a cheap ploy to hurt them. He scrapes the oatmeal stuck to the sides of the bowl off while he thinks.

“I just wish you could feel what I feel sometimes, because then maybe you’d understand!” He shakes his head and sighs, drops his spoon into the bowl with a clatter. “I should have never said anything in the first place!”

“No, baby,” May soothes as she rounds the island.

Peter’s first instinct is to back away, but then his lip trembles and his breaths are coming in short spurts. He leans right into her embrace and cries quietly. “It’s important that you communicate with us. We’re both really glad that you opened up.”

“Really? Because I’m not!” he cries. “I admitted that this is hard because I had to get it out, and then you teamed up to force me into this!” There’s anger in his words, in the way he’s talking with his hands as the tears run down his face.

He wants to both run and be comforted, is so damn tired of everyone and everything all of a sudden.

“Peter, that’s not what this is and you know it,” Tony says softly, but the words still bite.

“I don’t know anything anymore, honestly. I thought I did, but now…”

Tony sighs, lowers his voice. “If you want to attend Nationals–”

“What Nationals?!” Peter asks angrily. “Because of me, there is no Nationals for my team!”

Tony closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

May kisses him on the forehead. “Peter, baby, this is important. We both feel you really need this.”

“I know, okay? I’m not stupid! I know I need help with the emotional stuff! I just don’t think this is it!”

“Never said you were stupid, Pete. Maybe too smart for your own good,” Tony says with a small chuckle, “but never stupid.”

“We want to help you live the life you want with this, baby, that’s all,” May offers.

“B-but I am living my life with this! I’ve been doing just fine! M-my grades are great, a-and I made the decathlon team, a-and things are good with the Avengers! I’ve proved all of that, so I don’t know why I have to go and do this when I’ve done everything you asked! I’m doing the best that I can!”

“Of course you are, Peter,” Tony affirms. “You’ve done an amazing job so far and we’d never let anyone tell you otherwise, but this is about more than that. You have to learn to balance the physical and mental components of this disease. If you don’t, you’ll burn out.”

May chimes in with, “And even with the balancing act, you’ll still have times when you burn out, but that’s okay. It happens. This group is meant to give you some tools to work through those moments. You might even make some friends who _do_ understand.”

Peter lets out an aggravated groan, drops his arms at his sides and feels himself physically deflate. “I just…I don’t want to have to live Plan B,” he whispers. “I hate this so much!”

“Plan B?” May asked, confused.

Tony fills her in on the being a pilot with type one diabetes situation, or rather, the _not_ being a pilot with type one, while Peter stares at the floor.

“Peter, why didn’t you tell me?” May asks, sadness in her voice.

“I t-thought you knew and didn’t want me to know!” he says, sniffling. “I thought you were keeping it from me because you didn’t want me to think there are things I can’t do now, but there _are_ things I can’t do a-and everyone keeps telling me they don’t exist but they do, a-and–“

“I promise that I had no idea,” May says. “Oh, baby, I wish you had come to me. I know how much you wanted that.”

“I didn’t want you to think that I was depressed!” he yells out. “I’m okay! I promise! I don’t need to go to a therapist or a support group to prove that to you guys!”

“Do you trust us?” Tony asks.

“ _Trust you_? After you _corner_ me in the kitchen and force me to go and tell strangers how I feel about all of this? Are you serious?!”

Tony’s eyes meet Peter’s. “Do you trust us to do what’s best for you?”

Peter huffs. “You think that sending me to a support group is the best thing you could possibly do for me right now?”

“You’ll understand after the first meeting,” May explains. “I know you, Peter. Better than I know myself. Please trust me on this? Trust Tony on this? We might not get it, not yet at least, but the people there will.”

Peter’s not sure why, but even though Nationals is no longer on the table, and even though there’s technically no more ultimatum, he places his bowl in the dishwasher and trudges off to take a quick shower.

X

Peter takes the Q uptown toward the cluster of hospitals on the Upper East Side in Lennox Hill. He lets the music in his headphones drown out the reminder that the support group meeting is in a hospital, which is the last place he wants to be. Children’s is visible as he climbs the steps to the street level, the yellow and blue of the lettering towering above the nearby buildings, standing out from four blocks away.

He promises himself a churro on his way back to the subway, a reward for getting himself to actually step foot in the meeting.

Churros make everything better.

When he gets there, he enters through the sliding glass doors, cool air hitting his face. It’s a welcome reprieve from the June heat.

He checks his phone to confirm which floor the meeting is on and lets out a shaky breath as he presses the up arrow to call the elevator. For a moment, he thinks about taking the stairs, but between walking four blocks from the subway and his nerves, he’s panicked about getting an urgent low alarm. It’s the only one he can’t silence, the one that sounds like it’s warning everyone of an impending nuclear meltdown. It doesn’t matter that he’ll be in a room of diabetics; he doesn’t want any attention on him today. _Keep your mouth shut and get this over with_ , he reminds himself as the elevator dings and the doors open.

By the time he gets to the eighth floor, he’s lost in his music again, bumps right into someone while exiting the elevator. When he looks up, he finds MJ staring back at him. He pulls his headphones out.

“Hey, loser,” she says, surprised, as she steadies herself.

“Hi?” he answers, confusion apparent on his face. “Y-you’re…”

“Here. For the meeting,” she says, gesturing to the conference room on the left. “I don’t like subjecting myself to any more socializing than I have to, so I wait outside until the last possible second.” A beat later, when she realizes Peter isn’t catching her sarcasm, she adds, “My parents kind of force me to come.”

“Yeah, I know the…feeling,” he says, biting his lip. “Um,” he says, laughing nervously as he points at her. “Just to clarify, you’re here for the–“

“Type one group.”

“As like, a sister?”

“As myself.”

Peter takes a breath to steady himself, because he was not expecting _that_. “W-why didn’t you say anything?” he asks. It comes out as if he’s taking her keeping this from him personally, even though he isn’t.

He isn’t, right?

“Why didn’t _you_?” she throws back.

He shrugs, grips the straps of his backpack. “Come on, MJ. You knew. It’s not like it’s easy to hide this,” he says, pointing to his pump. “And then with everything that happened with Flash? _Gluconeogenesis_? And States?”

“So, you were listening,” she says, lifting an eyebrow.

“I was, but I had to look it up after. I barely know anything about any of this, to be honest,” he admits. He takes a breath and exhales heavily. “It’s all kind of been…”

“Overwhelming. I know. I’ve had it since I was eight. I was going to tell you, because of that day in Griggs’ class. With the cell phone that was really your pump?”

Peter stares blankly at her.

“When he thought you were smoking weed…”

“I know what day you’re talking about.”

“And then I kind of panicked,” she admits.

He lifts his eyebrows and teases, “Michelle ‘MJ’ Jones panicked?” 

She fake punches his arm and shrugs. “I was going to say something to Griggs, but then I didn’t want to speak _for_ you, and by the time I figured out what I was going to say, you already had the referral in your hand and were walking away.”

“You could’ve told me, at least. _After_ , I mean. I wouldn’t have said anything. Knowing someone else would’ve made this whole thing much more bearable than it’s been.”

She bites her lip. “Is that why they made you come?”

“Is that why they made _you_ come?” he throws back.

“Yup.” He had been expecting her to lie, make a sarcastic comment. She tucks her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “So, shall we?” she asks, nodding toward the door.

Peter grips his backpack straps, takes a deep breath, and follows her in.

X

Peter’s palms are sweating. He does not want to pass “Go.” He does not want to collect $200. _He does not want to be here._

Being in a room full of teens with type one does not feel like Tony and May promised it would.

It’s pressure he wasn’t expecting. Pressure he can’t put into words.

He thinks about slipping out to use the bathroom and leaving as everyone attaches pre-made name tags to their shirts, but the door is now closed and getting up, especially as the new kid, might just bring more attention than staying.

A Dexcom high alert goes off, Peter instinctively looking down at his watch, and then his pump, in confusion, before realizing that it isn’t him.

For once, it isn’t him.

He feels relief, and then guilt, watches as a boy across the room, Danny, fiddles with his pump.

Another boy across the room, name tag scrunched and unreadable on his shirt, shakes his head and roll his eyes in response.

“That’s Jacob,” MJ whispers. “He’s pretty judgmental when people talk about bad diabetes days or get alarms. He’s gonna go on and on about how he doesn’t let diabetes change anything about his life because he’s got it _all_ under control.” She makes air quotes beneath the table so that only Peter can see. “He’s not fooling anyone here, though, so it just makes it kind of hard to watch. He’s trying to beat out Natalia over there for Most Positive Attitude. He’s still somewhat new and honeymooning, so maybe it hasn’t hit him yet?”

Peter wants to add, “I’m _brand_ new,” but he doesn’t. He’s shocked that MJ is gossiping. They’re at a support group meeting, the one place where they _shouldn’t_ critique each other on how they’re dealing with this. “Everyone there will understand,” May had tried to explain right before he left. “No one will judge you.”

He thinks about leaving again, but the room has grown quiet.

“I see some familiar and new faces,” the social worker, a woman with a name tag that reads Joyce, prompts with a smile. “Welcome, everyone! I was thinking we could start by sharing something we’re each grateful for.” She holds her arms out as if she’s going to give everyone a giant hug.

Peter’s _really_ ready to run now.

“I’ll start,” the guy MJ identified as Jacob says. “I’m thankful for access to insulin and technology. Not everyone has access, so,” he explains, looking around the room. There are a few nods, which brings a smile to his face.

Peter thinks Jacob has a point; he knows how expensive all of this is, how many people ration insulin because they can’t afford it. He shudders to think what this would all be like without Tony’s financial help. May’s insurance probably wouldn’t cover his Dexcom and pump, which would probably have made the last few months more difficult than they’ve already been.

Jacob shrugs. “So, yeah, I guess there are worse things, you know? When life gives you lemons and all that…”

That quote. The one Peter _hates_.

May’s been all, “When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade” about this.

It makes his skin crawl.

Peter _hates_ that quote. Like, on the deepest level possible, he has _always_ hated those words. He hates the bitterness of lemons and lemonade, remembers May saying it after his parents died, after Ben died, after Tony _almost_ died, after his diagnosis. He knows May is just trying to keep things positive, but the phrase only drags the sentiment down, further and further. He’s tired of misfortune, and the phrase only makes reality sting that much more.

Facing reality is not one of Peter’s strongpoints right now.

“Actually,” MJ starts, and Peter can picture the gears turning in her head as she pulls a fact from the depths of her brain. “Humans cross-bred lemons, so we kind of brought that shit upon ourselves.” She’s pleased with herself, gives a chuckle and grins.

“Thank you, MJ, for that lovely science lesson,” Joyce forces, “but we need to watch our language, yes?”

Peter tries to suppress a laugh but fails miserably. Others laugh, too, so he doesn’t feel as embarrassed about it.

She’s setting her jean jacket on the back of her chair when Peter catches a white Omnipod on her arm with C257H383N65O77S6 sharpied onto it. The formula for insulin. Peter smiles to himself because it’s so MJ. He’s not ready to openly admit it, but having a familiar face here is making it a little easier to digest being here today.

“Honestly, can I acknowledge something I’m _not_ thankful for?” MJ asks, completely serious. There isn’t an edge to her voice, nor is there the sarcasm Peter noted earlier. “Isn’t that why we’re here? So that we don’t have to hide that stuff?”

Joyce purses her lips. “Go ahead, MJ.”

“I’m _not_ thankful for the lack of sleep. It’s really hard to explain to my parents why I’m exhausted all of the time. It’s like I’m speaking another language. They help, but they just don’t get it.”

“Agreed,” half the room murmurs, Peter included. He hadn’t been expecting to react, but he’s glad his voice blends in with everyone else’s.

“I’m not grateful for people thinking my pump is a phone,” Danny grumbles.

“Teachers?” someone across the room, Carolina, asks.

Danny is exasperated when he adds, “Yes! Especially subs! They’re the worst!”

“I’m not grateful for ignorant comments,” Anders explains. “I swear, if one more person asks me if I can eat something or if I ate too much sugar, I’m going to lose it!”

Peter, along with most of the room, nods and laughs knowingly. He may only be 4 months into this, but he feels that last statement to his core.

“You seem to be nodding in agreement, Peter,” Joyce comments. He stiffens immediately as every eye in the room turns toward him. “Why don’t you introduce yourself and then state something you’re not grateful for?”

Peter gulps. “Um. Hi, my name is Peter. I’m 16 and I was diagnosed 4 months ago.” He takes a few breaths to try and slow his racing heart. “Oh, and, uh, I guess I’m not grateful for having to…” he trails, thinking. _What was it that I said to Tony this morning?_ “I’m not grateful for having to live Plan B?”

Joyce tilts her head in interest. “Plan B?”

Peter hadn’t planned on talking about the Embry Riddle conundrum today or ever, really. He wonders if he can explain without going into too much detail.

He settles on “I wanted to become a pilot” and immediately regrets it.

A guy across the room who looks about Peter’s age, Marcos, perks up. “Dude, me too! They’re working on it, you know. There’s like ten years of ADA lawsuits and stuff to get us the medical certificate and in the air. The first round of pilots with diabetes just applied and are supposed to get approved.”

Peter lifts his head a little, smiles at the use of _us._ “Yeah?” There’s hope in his question, but he hates the idea that he has to wait. That because of this _one thing_ , something out of his control, he can’t do any of this on his own terms.

“I’m hopeful. For one day, you know?” Marcos says, offering a smile.

This whole disease has been about “one day.” One day, there might be a true artificial pancreas. One day, there might be a cure. One day, they might let people with type one fly.

He’s tired of “one day.”

Even if Marcos is right and changes are coming, he’ll be the only one at Embry Riddle, possibly the first. His brain has done enough analysis to leave him with this: How could Embry Riddle want him, diabetes and all?

He just wants to blend in, get to be like everyone else.

He’s suddenly angry that May and Tony made him come here, where one seemingly simple and innocent question has him admitting what’s been keeping him up at night.

It’s not just the Embry Riddle pilot conundrum.

It’s actually _everything_.

Peter used to think he knew what the future might hold for him, what it would look like if he followed the plan.

Plan A.

He’s not sure what to do with this new normal just yet. It’s painful to think about. 

Peter bites his lip, refuses to say anything else for the rest of the meeting. Letting things out is supposed to be helpful, cleansing. This seems to only have made the truth heavier and he doesn’t understand _why_.

At least he didn’t cry.

That’s what he’d worried the most about on the way here.

30 minutes left.

He counts down the minutes.

X

“I’m trying to invite you for coffee,” MJ says when the meeting’s over. She’s not annoyed, but Peter realizes she’s been trying to get his attention while he’s been staring off into space.

“I don’t really drink coffee.”

“It’s not really about the coffee. It’s to hang out. But I totally get it if you don’t want to. Joyce’s group can be a bit overwhelming the first time.”

Tony and May will be expecting him, waiting to pounce and hear how it went, but if he says he’s spending time with kids from support group for the afternoon, he won’t have to face them just yet.

It’s just MJ, but they don’t need to know that.

“Yes,” Peter replies as he pulls his backpack on.

“Yes to the coffee or to the group being a lot the first time?”

“Both.”

She grabs her jacket and ties it around her waist. He doesn’t remember her ever allowing her Omnipod to be visible before. She’s usually wearing long sleeves or sweaters at school. “Great! There’s a Starbucks on First Avenue.”

He likes that she doesn’t ask him if he can have it, isn’t afraid to invite him somewhere where there will be heaps of sugar. It’s relieving in a way he wasn’t expecting.

The churro will have to wait.

They end up spending the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening together, starting at Starbucks before they move onto the Shakespeare & Company bookstore a few blocks west.

He’s not expecting to lean so easily into MJ.

It just kind of happens.

Maybe it’s because, after they each order a drink and snack, they both go to bolus, Peter on his pump, MJ on her PDM for her Omnipod, without having to explain.

Or maybe it’s because when he gets a Dexcom low alert at the bookstore a few hours later from all of their walking, MJ whips out a packet of Skittles and wordlessly hands it over before going back to browsing books.

They don’t talk diabetes. They just _do the things_ and move on.

It feels good in a way he wasn’t expecting.

He didn’t know it could be like this.

Like…like it’s normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have received more hateful and degrading comments on this fic than all of the fic I have ever written and it is NOT okay. Again, this is free art. Please read my author’s notes. If I continue to receive hateful comments and messages, I will not continue this story.
> 
> **To reiterate:  
>  1\. DLDR/C. Don’t like, don’t read/comment.  
> 2\. Unkind comments will be deleted.  
> 3\. I am not seeking critiques at this time.**
> 
> For those who want a more comprehensive overview of the diabetes vocabulary, you can refer to this document I created: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JzW8NzTnv9rkL9SpkiS8FX5Xn--Pu9I2jH1P1TKjv-Y/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> If you'd like me to add anything to the document, leave it in the comments.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been trying to decide what to do about this fic for a week now. It started as my reprieve from COVID and brought me so much joy during a dark time. After posting chapter 7, however, a reader left a series of inflammatory comments, called me a "cunt" and "jackass" because they didn’t like something about the fic, and proceeded to make it their mission to blacklist me in the fandom on multiple platforms. I’ve gotten so much hate in the last week from people who have never even read any of my work because of this. If you don’t like something about a fic, please don’t continue to read it and please don't comment unless you're sure that your comment reads as intended. Don’t harass the writer. If they ask for no critiques because they just want this to be fun, or they state that they will delete unkind comments for the good of the community around the fic, they can and should do so.
> 
> This is FREE art. I’ve gotten about 75,000 words of 100,000 written and have been so close to just deleting it all. Why would a writer want to keep working on something and post it after receiving so much negativity? I’m not a punching bag. I’m a creator who is chronically ill and is just trying to put something out into the world for others to connect with. For now, I am continuing because I'd rather focus on those that are enjoying this for the sake of having something good to look forward to during this intense time. 
> 
> **Comment moderation has been turned on. If you spam my work with repulsive language, I will report you to AO3 for harassment. This behavior is unacceptable and I will not tolerate it. Please be nice to your content creators. DLDR/C. It’s that simple.**

Tomorrow is the last day of school, so Peter’s stayed out on patrol later than usual. Tony’s often sitting up, waiting, which Peter finds overbearing, but when he tiptoes out of the elevator and sees that the living room is dark, he finds himself glad that Tony’s finally backing off and getting some sleep.

He wants nothing more than to shower and pass out, but he’s on his way to the kitchen to fulfill another one of Tony’s stupid rules: Peter has to grab a snack after patrol if he’s below 100.

He’s 84.

Low-ish, but technically not _low low_.

When he’s nearly across the room, the light switches on, illuminating Tony on the loveseat, a book in his lap and glasses perched on his nose.

Peter throws his head back and groans. _So much for freedom._  
  
Tony chuckles. “I love how you thought I’d go to bed before you got home from patrol.”

Peter deflates a little, embarrassed. “You don’t have to stay up for me. I can do this, Tony. I’m getting the hang of it, no pun intended.”

“I know you can do it, kiddo. Dexcom had you trending down about an hour ago and I wanted to make sure you grabbed something to eat before heading to bed so we didn’t have a repeat of last time.”

Peter had come home just as exhausted a few weeks earlier and forgotten to grab a snack, woke to Tony forcing apple juice on him at three in the morning. He’d slept through the Dexcom alarms, had to shower once he was back in range because he’d sweat through his t-shirt.

“I mean,” Peter starts, feeling like he has to explain himself, hands wringing his Spiderman mask. “I had a churro on patrol, didn’t even need insulin, but swinging made me feel low, so I headed home.” He hates admitting it, but it’s the truth. That familiar low headache had started pressing half an hour ago and he’d popped two glucose tabs on his way back to the Tower to hold himself over.

Tony gets up slowly, uses only his left arm to lift his body from the couch. Peter itches to help, but he gives Tony his space, heads to the kitchen instead and thinks about what will be enough to bring him up. He grabs the peanut butter jar and a spoon, hoping that the protein will keep him steady for the next few hours.

When Tony joins him, he opens the fridge. “We’ve got orange juice and that Mott’s for Tots berry stuff Morgan loves.”

Peter laughs with the spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth. “I mean, the berry stuff tastes great, but remind me why you keep it in the house after Pepper accidentally put it in her smoothie and needed her epi-pen?”

“Morgan won’t drink anything else! It’s like when I try to buy the off-brand dino nuggets. She can taste the difference! I tried the regular stuff, but she hated it. Eh, it’s probably for the best, anyway. It’s got like 40% less sugar.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want her to get diabetes or anything,” Peter jokes. He thinks it’s hilarious, but Tony’s frowning, has his head tilted.

“Kid.”

“Just some dark, harmless humor,” Peter defends. “Anyway, I guess I’ll take some of the death juice.”

Tony glares at him. “Peter.”

“Come on, Tony. It’s funny!”

“It’s not,” Tony says, but Peter can see that he’s shaking his head and trying not to laugh as he attempts to use his left hand to pour juice into a glass.

“You _can_ laugh, you know. I _am_ pretty funny,” Peter says, lifting his eyebrows.

Tony doesn’t say anything, just rolls his eyes and hands the glass over.

Peter sits up on the counter and takes a long sip.

“How was patrol?”

“It was…patrol.”

“Really killing me with the vague is vague here. Care to elaborate?

“I helped an old lady get her groceries up the stairs to her apartment and returned a lost puppy to their owners.” He takes another sip. “Oh, and I stopped a fight in an alley between some teenagers.” He shrugs, sips.

Tony narrows his eyes. “You don’t sound half as excited about any of that as you usually do.”

“Yeah, well, I’m low, so…”

“This isn’t the low, Peter. This is all you. What’s on your mind, kid?”

Peter bites his lip, swings his legs a little. “Are we going to do this every time I seem down?”

“No, we don’t have to, but I figured I’d ask. You don’t seem to be enjoying patrol like you used to. Is it because I put restrictions on your Avengers status?”

Peter wishes that explained everything, but he knows it’s more complicated than that. Part of him is terrified to be on a mission and go low from swinging and fighting, and another part of him wonders how long they’re going to keep pretending he’s really a part of the Avengers. A level four mission, which he hasn’t been on since November of last year, is the equivalent of his fight at the Berlin airport against Bucky and Sam. Tony’s had him on patrols and level three missions that barely compare to his fight on the Staten Island Ferry, and it’s left him feeling like a benchwarmer, like the B Team. He’s starting to wonder if it’s time to put his suit in his closet and let Spiderman slowly fade into oblivion.

It’s been just about four months since his diagnosis, and he knows he can’t go back to before, but it doesn’t stop him from missing the carefree aspects of being superhuman. Embodying Spiderman always made him feel larger than life itself, and then diabetes had come into play, making him feel _so small_ , so out of control.

He just wants some of that control back. It’s nearly impossible to be Spiderman without it.

“Patrol was great and then I got a low headache. I used to have, like, endless energy and now I’m just so _tired_ all of the time. I thought it’d get better, but it’s the same pattern every single time.”

Tony nods. “Did you know that a 2014 Stanford study found that people with type one diabetes make 180 extra decisions per day?” 

“No, but that makes a lot of sense. Someone at support group described diabetes like swimming upstream every moment that you’re awake _and_ asleep, and that’s honestly the best metaphor I can think of right now.”

“What do you think about the group?”

He shrugs, finishes the juice. “It’s okay, I guess. There’s a girl from school and decathlon there, so that helps.”

“That’s good!” Tony comments. “What’s her name?”

Peter blushes. “MJ.”

“Is she smart?”

He laughs. “Smarter than me, that’s for sure.”

“Not possible,” Tony says, ruffling Peter’s hair. “You know there’s no more ultimatum, right? You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“Thank you for acknowledging that it _was_ an ultimatum,” Peter says, laughing. “And yeah, I know. May keeps reminding me. There were things I liked about it and some that I didn’t, but it was also nice just being around people who get it. It’s hard to explain.”

“People go to support groups for all kinds of reasons. Maybe, for now, that’s yours,” Tony suggests.

He thinks about Jacob and Natalia, how MJ said they were fighting over Most Positive Attitude, and wonders if they’re just as new as Peter, if how they presented themselves in the group is how they’ve been coping in their own ways. Peter had blurted out what he’d been holding in and away from everyone and then clammed up for the remainder of the meeting, had focused on listening and trying not to have a full-on nervous breakdown.

And then MJ had invited him for coffee, spent the whole afternoon with him not focusing on diabetes, and something in him had shifted.

Tony takes the empty glass from Peter’s hands and puts it in the sink. “Go take a shower and get some sleep, kiddo. You’ve got school in the AM.”

Peter nods, hops off of the counter and is almost to the hallway when he pauses, turns back around. “Hey, Tony?”

“Hmm?” he asks.

“Thanks for always listening.”

“You got it, Underoos,” he says, smiling.

X

“Pete?” he hears Tony whisper sometime in the middle of the night. He rolls away, pulls the covers over his head. “You’re 310, kiddo.” Tony’s gentle about it, nearly whispering even though he doesn’t have to. He switches the light on and hands Peter his phone, which is when Peter realizes he’s slept through multiple Dexcom alarms. “What’s your pump say?”

Irritated, Peter sits up and goes for his pump site. Only, the insert and tubing aren’t there. His heart sinks. “I must’ve forgotten to connect my pump after my shower! I was so tired, I completely forgot!” He puts his head in his hands.

“We can fix it. No big deal,” Tony encourages, but Peter feels tears pooling, is suddenly so overwhelmed by having made such a stupid mistake. His blood sugar is high, which isn’t exactly helping him control his emotions, but he also knows how badly this could’ve gone. _What if I do this at college and my roommate isn’t there?_ he wonders. _What if it happens when I’m thousands of miles away and Tony and May can’t get to me?_

 __Tony finds the pump on Peter’s desk and brings it over. After Peter reconnects it and makes sure that he’s getting insulin, he slides back beneath his covers.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispers, afraid to look Tony in the eye.

Tony pulls Peter’s covers up a bit higher and tucks him in around the edges. “Hey, it happens.” 

_Yeah, right_ , Peter thinks. _Parents say this to their kids all of the time. Not._

“Get some sleep.”

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” Peter asks, a few tears sliding down his cheeks. “I made a big mistake! I c-could’ve ended up really high, with ketones, and–”

Tony puts a hand on his shoulder. “But you didn’t, because we have Dexcom. And I’m not yelling at you because I slept through the alarms, just like you did. We may be superheroes, but we’re both exhausted and undeniably human. This is going to happen sometimes, kiddo. The important thing is that we caught it.”

Peter’s not convinced, is worried that Tony’s going to change his mind about it tomorrow when he’s had enough coffee to be fully awake, but he’s also so tired right now that he finds his eyelids closing, feels his head sinking into the pillow.

“FRIDAY, wake me if he doesn’t start coming down by 2:15.”

“Of course, sir.”

Peter’s out before Tony switches the lamp off.

**40 minutes later.**

“Kiddo, can you sit up for me? You want juice or gummies?” Tony asks.

Peter turns and blinks against the harsh lamplight. “Huh?”

“You’re low. I’m gonna fingerstick to make sure Dex is right.”

Peter slides his head under his pillow and groans because he just wants to sleep.

He feels Tony prick his pinkie, which is the absolute worst, and cries out.

“Sorry, I forgot you hate the pinkie. Gotta remember that.” The meter beeps. “55. Juice or gummies?”

“Gummies.”

**1 hour later.**

Peter’s room is cool, but the moment he peels his sweaty face from his pillow, he knows his blood sugar is off. He sees that his lamp is on a second before catching a shadow moving to his left. He jumps into a sitting position with a yelp.

“Sorry,” Tony apologizes.

“You just scared…the _shit_ out of me…” Peter pants with his eyes closed, his chin hitting his chest.

“Wish I’d scared your high blood sugar away instead.”

“Huh? I’m not low?” he asks, his eyebrows knitting as he focuses on Tony.

“Far from it. You’re 300 and rising,” Tony says, lifting Peter’s pump in his hands for a visual. “Batman says 4 units. Was going to do it while you slept, but I woke you by accident. You want me to half it so we don’t have to go on this rollercoaster all night?”

Peter exhales and drops his shoulders. “I want this disease to go fuck itself.”

“I know you do, Underoos. I want that more than anything.”

The frustration grows like a wave as he rubs his face. “I had _one_ packet of gummies! _One_! That’s only, like, 18 carbs!”

Tony sighs. “I hate to say this, kiddo, but I think your honeymoon might be ending.”

Peter flops back down onto the bed, sleep pressing, his body longing to doze off. “Just give me 5 units.”

“Don’t want you dropping again.”

“Fine. 4.5.”

“Kid.” Peter can hear the exhaustion in Tony’s voice and suddenly feels guilty for having him up so often because of his own stupid mistake. “FRIDAY, what do you suggest?”

“4 units should suffice based on the most recent algorithm update.”

“4 units it is.”

**1 hour later.**

“T-Tony?”

“Just checking you, kid.” Peter feels a small prick on his ring finger, barely registers the beep of the meter.

He blinks slowly, tries to get his eyes to adjust to the dark. “Did Dexcom alert?”

“Nope. Just had a feeling.” There’s the sound of rustling plastic as Tony unwraps a straw and stabs the top of a small apple juice box with it. He doesn’t even ask what Peter wants this time. “Drink.”

Peter feels the straw at his lips, takes a few drags of the juice before letting it go. “How low?”

“62.”

“Good catch.”

“Dex says you’re 88 but it’s fifteen minutes or so behind, so I’m not gonna calibrate, okay?”

Peter nods, takes another long sip from the juice box.

“I think it’s time to do the Control-IQ update on your pump. Bruce said we can set insulin profiles for things like sleep and exercise. It’ll change your basal rates so that you have less nights like this.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees, even though it sounds complicated and confusing, like more mental work than maybe it’s worth. He wishes he could just go back to sleep, but he knows he’ll have to sit up for a little while to make sure his blood sugar keeps rising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comment Guidelines:  
>  1\. DLDR/C. Don’t like, don’t read/comment.  
> 2\. Unkind comments and/or profane language will be deleted.  
> 3\. I am not seeking critiques at this time.**
> 
> For those who want a more comprehensive overview of the diabetes vocabulary, you can refer to this document I created: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JzW8NzTnv9rkL9SpkiS8FX5Xn--Pu9I2jH1P1TKjv-Y/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> If you'd like me to add any other terms to the document, please leave it in the comments.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind messages on the last chapter! They helped immensely to restore my confidence and showed me how much interest there is for this story! I can't believe how far this fic has reached! I hope that you truly enjoy the coming chapters. They've been the most fun to write. :) Should out to HDAnalyst for beta-ing this chapter!
> 
> **Reminder that comment moderation has been turned on. If you spam my work with repulsive language, I will report you to AO3 for harassment. This behavior is unacceptable and I will not tolerate it. Please be nice to your content creators. DLDR/C. It’s that simple.**

Tony offers to let Peter stay home from school the next morning, but Peter decides to go because it’s the last day. After the final bell, he finds MJ waiting at his locker. She’s in her jean jacket despite the heat, arms crossed over her chest. There’s sunlight coming from the doors down the hallway, illuminating the natural highlights in her hair. Peter wants to smile at how pretty she is, marvel at how looking at her has been causing some kind of weird but contented flutter in his chest for the last week or so, but his head is throbbing to the point where he’s a bit nauseous. He hates to think that he might have to cancel their hangout, that he has to decide in the next few minutes if he can tough it out or not.

Maybe he can hide it.

“Took you long enough,” she jokes, moving out of the way so that he can get to his lock, but when Peter doesn’t laugh back, she frowns. “Hey, everything okay?” She’s trying to catch his eyes, but he avoids hers on purpose as he begins to empty the few items left in his locker.

“I-I might just head home. It’s like a million degrees in here and my blood sugar’s been yo-yo-ing on repeat. I’m cranky and I don’t want to make you miserable. I’m not really much fun when it’s like this.” He feels terrible, canceling on her like this. He knows he should’ve texted her earlier in the day, given her a heads up, but he was hoping it’d magically improve, that his levels would stabilize like they usually do. They’re supposed to have a horror movie marathon at MJ’s to celebrate the start of summer, and he wants to go, has been looking forward to this since they made plans on Monday, but he can’t get his brain to figure out a way to make this any better than it already is.

“You’re self-deprecating right now and I won’t accept it. I don’t mind if you’re cranky. We can go to your house instead of mine if you’d like. Or we can reschedule. Up to you. Are you high or low?”

Peter grabs his last book and places it in his backpack. “I’ve been high all afternoon and it’s given me a headache from Hell.” He goes to double-back on saying he’s high, but MJ doesn’t seem phased by his terminology; sometimes he forgets that he doesn’t have to explain himself with her.

“High and starving?” she asks. “Or high and nauseous?”

Peter laughs softly, because this is something even Tony hasn’t picked up on, and it’s nice that someone is reading his mind. “High, starving, _and_ nauseous. It’s the _worst_ combination.”

She leans in closer to him and lowers her voice. “I thought maybe you had a shitty day. You seemed pretty wiped out in math and science. Not that we were doing much. You just seemed…quieter than usual. Figured you weren’t feeling great.”

He presses his head against the cool metal of his locker and closes his eyes. “Correction: Shitty _night_. It was like a rollercoaster that I couldn’t get off, which led to a shitty day. I didn’t want to stay home because then Tony wouldn’t have let me hang out, but now I feel even worse because it’s so _hot_ in this building.”

MJ pulls a water bottle out of her backpack and hands it over. It’s plastic, unopened. She despises plastic water bottles, but they were giving them out for free during lunch today, so she’d grabbed one because of the heat.

“Thanks.” Peter takes a long sip out of desperation, knows he should’ve been guzzling water all day with how thirsty he’s been. He imagines his blood as a sugary sludge, slowly moving through his body.

His watch vibrates with a Dexcom alert mid-sip, which is startling and has him choking on the water.

“I hate this so much,” he complains when he’s done coughing. MJ holds the water bottle while he gives himself his fourth correction on his pump today. “I just want to go home and take a nap.”

“I won’t be mad if you do that, you know. You can cancel on me, Peter. I understand.”

And he wants to, he really wants to, because MJ 100% gets it and he’s feeling so cruddy, but his brain is telling him to push through it, even though he’ll definitely pay for it later.

He doesn’t want to go home because he doesn’t want to deal with Tony, would rather feel like this while hanging out with MJ than have Tony waking him repeatedly mid-nap to prick his fingers. He loves Tony and everything that he’s done to help and support him, but he needs a break. Room to breathe and figure this out on his own for a little bit. His watch says that he’s 263 with a slightly down arrow. High, but not as high as he woke up this morning. The water and insulin seem to be working, thankfully.

If he gets to MJ’s before Tony realizes he’s not on his way home, he might be able to make this work.

“You’re on the Lower East Side, right?” he asks, slamming his locker shut.

“East Village.”

“Close enough.”

MJ hands the water bottle back to Peter. “So…yes to my place?”

“Yeah,” he says with a happy sigh. “I’m feeling a little bit better.”

“You’re sure?” she asks, eyeing him.

“I’m sure.” He puts the water bottle in a side sleeve, slides his backpack on, and slips his hands into his pockets.

“You can nap if you want,” MJ offers. “When we get to my place, I mean. Or on the train ride. I won’t take it personally.”

“Are you telling me I look like shit?” he jokes.

“In the nicest way possible, yes,” she admits.

“Ouch,” he says playfully, putting a hand to his chest. “I appreciate the offer, though,” he says, laughing.

They head for the exit, Peter noticing that MJ doesn’t remove her jean jacket until they’re taking the steps down to the subway. He catches a glimpse of her Omnipod on her left arm as she shoves it into her backpack. He finds himself wanting to ask her why she hides it sometimes, but he doesn’t want to change the vibe, not when the alternative is going home.

“If you’re feeling better later, we can grab a slice in NoLIta. I know a place,” she says, swiping her MetroCard.

Peter chuckles and swipes on the turnstile next to her. “That’s such a New York thing to say.”

She smiles and licks her lips. “Which part?”

“NoLIta.” _North of Little Italy._

 __The walk together toward the subway platform. __  
  
“Serious question,” she asks as they wait for the train. “Yea or nay to pineapples on pizza.”

“I mean, if you like it, why not? Yea, I guess? But only if that’s what you prefer? It’s not hurting anyone else…unless it’s like, the whole pie and you’re sharing…and yeah, I’m going way too deeply into this…”

“Perfect. We can still be friends, then. You had me for a second, there.”

“So, then you’re a pineapple pizza person?”

“Oh, no. No way. I just wanted to see your response. Are you?”

“Also not a pineapple pizza person,” he says, laughing. “Now _I_ have a serious question.”

“Go for it.”

Peter grins. “Have you figured out the perfect way to bolus for pizza?”

She bursts out laughing, dimples appearing as she smiles wide. “Fuck _no_.”

X

MJ lets Peter rest his head on her shoulder the entire subway ride to her apartment. He likes that she offered, didn’t want to seem awkward or rude for imagining it. It’s not until she’s whispering his name, got a hand on his knee, that he realizes how deeply he must’ve been sleeping on the short ride. He hopes he wasn’t snoring; he tends to do that when he’s sleep deprived. They make it up and off of the train just before the doors close.

“This way,” she directs when they’re street level and Peter veers off in the wrong direction.

His watch vibrates with a high alert just as they’re walking into her building. He’s 227. A text from Tony appears on his watch a moment later. _You’ve been high for a few hours, kiddo. You okay? You on your way home?_

 _I’m okay. Coming down. At MJ’s. Might have dinner here,_ he texts on his phone. __

 __“Still high?” she asks, but it doesn’t feel intrusive like Tony’s text.

He pulls his pump out to give another correction bolus of insulin. “Yup.”

“Still thirsty?” She unlocks the door and lets Peter in.

“ _So_ thirsty.”

She fills two glasses of ice water in the kitchen and gives a quick tour of her apartment. When they get to her room, she lets her backpack fall to the ground and offers Peter a seat at her desk. He gladly takes it.

His watch vibrates again.

“I hate when Dexcom is slow to catch up,” MJ comments, brushing her hair behind her ears.

“I know, right? I have a love/hate relationship with Dex. Like, I need it for my pump, and so that Tony and May have my numbers, but sometimes, it’s more anxiety than it’s worth.” Peter had briefly explained his home situation during their last hangout. He’d left out the Spiderman detail on purpose, had focused solely on how his guardian, Aunt May, had married Happy Hogan, Tony Stark’s director of security. He lied and said that that was how he got his internship at Stark Industries freshman year, explained that Tony and May were doing this weird kind of co-parenting thing that he didn’t want to get into, so he was living with the Starks to help out with Tony and Pepper’s five-year-old daughter, Morgan. MJ hadn’t asked too many questions, which Peter had been thankful for.

“You ever take a Dex or pump break?” she asks, curious. “Like, just doing fingersticks and injections for a few days?”

“Does my first week after diagnosis count?” he jokes, taking a sip of the water.

MJ laughs and shakes her head, but it’s not in jest. “No.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Tony and May probably wouldn’t let me have a break. They’re pretty involved with everything. To them, the tech makes it easier. Safer,” he says before taking another sip. “Like, I still…I still need Tony to help me with site changes. And lows. And May’s a nurse, so she sort of understands, but, it’s not the same as like… _getting it_ , you know?” He blushes, instantly regretting that he’s admitted these things.

MJ’s belly down on her bed now, chin propped atop her folded hands. “I didn’t start doing my Omnipod changes completely by myself until last year. Back when we could afford it, I wore the older Dexcom G5. It hurt a lot more than the G6. My mom tried one once to see how bad it was and after that, my parents started to do my pod and Dex changes while I was sleeping. If I had to change one of them during the day, I would throw a fit. It was…it was a big issue for a while. I’m glad I got past that. It was absolute misery.”

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better about this, MJ.”

Her face changes, almost as if she’s taken offense to what he’s said. “I’m telling you this because it’s the truth. Why would I lie to you?”

He feels like an ass, bites his lip. “Sorry. I’m just kind of used to people…downplaying things that I know aren’t normal to make me feel like all of this is okay even though it’s not. Like I forgot to connect my pump after my shower last night and that’s why I was all over the place. I was expecting Tony to be pissed, but he shrugged it off, told me it happens all the time which is a complete lie and…I don’t know, I guess I don’t really trust that people are telling me the truth anymore. It’s like…like…”

“Like they’re trying to help but sometimes they make it a thousand times worse?”

“Oh my god, _yes_!” He puts the glass down on her desk. “Like with Tony…you know he got hurt in that battle with Thanos and all, so he gets some of what it’s been like because of his arm, but as much as our experiences overlap, there’s so much that _doesn’t_. And May can be so… _clinical_ about everything. Tony micromanages carb counts and the algorithm on my pump, whereas May focuses on the bigger picture, like my A1C and my Dexcom data. Pepper, Tony’s wife, tries, and so does Happy, May’s new husband, but now they’re super gentle with me when they weren’t before and it’s weird. And Ned, he’s my best friend, was there for me when my Uncle Ben died in 8th grade, but sometimes I think he’s scared of me? Like I’m an emergency waiting to happen and I can tell every time we hang out. It’s been…exhausting. Like, this disease is a pain in the ass, but then so is everyone else because they’re trying so hard. Most days, it’s like the only person that doesn’t see me any differently is Morgan, and she’s only five.”

“And me.”

He chuckles. “You barely knew me before I showed up at group, MJ.”

“You seriously think you weren’t on my radar for the last three years? That’s hilarious, Parker. You’re smarter than that.”

He blushes, feels that familiar flutter in his chest. “So, you lied when you said you were just observant and not obsessed with me?” he asks, curious.

“Oh, at decathlon practice? That was just me being awkward. As per usual.” She snorts.

Peter laughs, looks over at this girl that he’s falling so freaking hard for. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She holds up her arm to show her Omnipod.

“You thought I wouldn’t hang out with you because your pancreas sucks? For real?” he asks, confused.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Middle school was…traumatic.” She gives him a sad grin.

“I think it is for everyone, but I can understand how all of this would make it that much worse. Were there catty and judgmental girls that gave you a hard time?”

“More like catty and judgmental _everyone_.”

“Is that why you don’t really hang out with people?” It sounds better than _is that why you don’t have friends_?

She sighs, which puffs up the stray hairs around her face. “I mean, it’s part of it, but I’ve always been kind of introverted. It doesn’t really bother me. But yeah, having friends kind of fell to the wayside when I got to Midtown, I guess.”

“I’d never ditch you because you have a cranky pancreas,” he says with a small laugh.

“Same,” she says, laughing back.

“What did Jacob from group call this?” Peter asks, thinking back. “Diabetes buddies?”

“Diabuddies.”

“It’s pretty punny.”

She laughs again. “See, this is why I like you, Parker.”

He blushes again, takes another sip of water from the glass to keep himself from grinning like an overeager idiot. He likes that she calls him Parker when she’s being funny and Peter when she’s being serious. It’s different. Adorable. 

His watch vibrates again with yet another Dexcom alarm.

“I’m about ready to rip this damn thing out of my arm!”

“You can increase the time between repeat alarms,” she explains, putting her hand out for his phone. “It won’t affect Tony or May’s follow settings.”

“Wait, really?”

He hands his phone over and lets her adjust the settings. “How long between alarms do you want repeat alerts? It says 25 minutes in your settings. You trying to torture yourself?”

“Tony set it up. I didn’t even realize I could change it. Um, an hour?” he asks. 

“Done.” She gives his phone back.

“T-thanks.”

“I have an idea,” MJ says, pulling out her own phone. She scrolls and picks a song before placing her phone on her desk. “I do this when my blood sugar is being stubborn and I want to come down.”

Peter makes a face as he recognizes “Catch My Breath” and asks, “You listen to Kelly Clarkson?” He holds back a laugh.

“Notice how you said that _before_ she started singing,” MJ says, eyebrows lifting. “You know this song.” The smile on her face says she’s loving that she’s got something on him.

Peter blushes. “May used to be obsessed. She plays the same songs on repeat for hours!”

MJ sticks her tongue out in disgust. “Ew, that’s a thing?”

“Right?! I can’t stand it! Like, at least make a playlist or play a full album, start to finish. Shuffle’s fine, except for _Hamilton_. _Ham_ on shuffle is a travesty!”

“Agreed,” she says, finding a place in the middle of the room and bouncing to the music as the tempo picks up. She’s moving her arms and hips in the corniest way possible. She does the Carlton dance from _Fresh Prince_ and then the sprinkler. She’s being dorky on purpose, not even caring that Peter can see her.

That familiar flutter fills his chest.

At the first “catching my breath, letting it go,” she shimmies her shoulders and bobs her head as she exaggerates her singing. She glares at him as if she’s saying, “Come on!” 

Peter shakes his head and laughs, backing away as he says, “MJ, no! I’ll look like a loser!”

“You’re already a loser!”

Peter scrunches his face, but he still can’t seem to get his happy grin to fall. He knows it’s because he’s with MJ, because she’s trying to cheer him up.

When it goes into the next verse, she slows down a bit, throwing her hands up one at a time. He feels silly standing there, so he does an awkward side-step to join. He feels like he’s at a school dance, trying to impress the girl he likes but failing miserably. This is about the time he’d go and get punch to avoid embarrassing himself.

“You’re not even trying!” she says, going into another bout of giggles. She grabs his hands in hers, jumps up and down as she sways her head, hair flying everywhere, and sings, “Catch my breath! No one can hold me back, I ain’t got time for that! Catch my breath! Won’t let ‘em get me down! It’s all so simple now!”

She stops, gets low, rising as she sings, “You helped me see the beauty in everything,” hitting the high note with her eyes closed, Peter’s eyes going wide, impressed. He smiles, starts jumping with her as the music builds again, letting his arms flail in time with the music. He finds himself remembering the lyrics, laughing at how good it feels to sing each line louder than the last. It doesn’t feel silly anymore, not even close.

It just feels good.

“Now that you know, this is my life!” he yells, laughing so hard his belly hurts. “I won’t be told what’s supposed to be right!”

Their erratic jumping is making everything on her bookshelves shake, feet pounding each time they hit the floor. He imagines the song blaring through her apartment, other tenants able to hear it floors up, but he doesn’t even care. It only makes him laugh harder. He pumps his arms, lets his whole body go. MJ pretends to sing into a microphone, bobbing her head like a turtle.

When the song ends, they both lean forward with their hands on their knees, grinning and panting.

“Still tired?” she asks, clearly out of breath, Peter unable to speak as his heart pounds in his chest. He shakes his head and laughs, runs his fingers through his hair.

When he can breathe somewhat normally, he stands up with his hands on his hips. “That felt…great.”

And somehow, MJ’s responding smile has convinced him that perhaps, if only for now, this temporary feeling of greatness is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comment Guidelines:  
>  1\. DLDR/C. Don’t like, don’t read/comment.  
> 2\. Unkind comments and/or profane language will be deleted.  
> 3\. I am not seeking critiques at this time.**
> 
> For those who want a more comprehensive overview of the diabetes vocabulary, you can refer to this document I created: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JzW8NzTnv9rkL9SpkiS8FX5Xn--Pu9I2jH1P1TKjv-Y/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> If you'd like me to add any other terms to the document, please leave it in the comments.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! I promise to respond to all of the comments! :)

“Bring an extra Dexcom sensor,” Tony advises from the doorway as Peter throws sunblock and a deck of Uno cards into his backpack. “Sometimes the adhesive weakens and people lose them in water.”

Peter rolls his eyes.

Tony crosses his arms. “What’s that for?”

“Because MJ said the same thing,” he says, laughing as he goes over to his diabetes supplies to grab a new sensor and some alcohol wipes. “She mentioned these overlay patches that help keep Dex on in the water. Maybe we can order some for the rest of the summer?”

“FRIDAY, add overlay patches to my shopping list.”

“Added to your shopping list,” she replies.

“Oh, and make sure you fingerstick every few hours. I was reading that water can make the Dex sensor wonky. Do you have your meter and cooler case for your pump?”

Peter stops, crosses his own arms. “Tony, you’re doing it again.”

He puts his arms up in defense. “I’m just asking if you have everything you need.”

“You promised to give me a little bit of space,” Peter explains. “How am I supposed to manage this on my own if everyone’s always doing it for me?”

“You’re right, I did,” Tony admits, letting his arms down. “Sorry, I’m just–”

“Worried, I know. Everyone is always worried about me.” He sighs, shoves a towel into his backpack.

“It’s because we care about you, kiddo. We just want you to be safe.”

“I know,” he mumbles, because he’s not angry with Tony, just wishes he’d back off a little bit with the verbal reminders and text messages every time he’s out of range, that he’d give Peter time to troubleshoot situations on his own. 

Morgan appears at Tony’s side, leaning into her father’s leg. She looks over at Peter, notices he’s in swim shorts and a t-shirt. “I wanna go swimming, too, Daddy!”

“We have a pool here, baby. I can take you in a little while after I get some things done around the house.”

“But I wanna go with Peter!” she pouts.

“Hey, remember how we watched _Night at the Museum?_ ” Peter asks Morgan, crouching down in front of her.

She nods.

“How about we go this week? I can bring my friend MJ. I think it’ll be really fun!”

“Really?” she asks excitedly, looking up at Tony.

There’s a beat, and Peter worries for a moment that Tony might nix the idea. He’s mentioned MJ, though, so he won’t be alone with Morgan.

Tony sighs. “You guys can go to the museum this week,” he says.

“Yes!” Morgan cheers, jumping up and down.

A text from MJ pops up on his watch. _We’re meeting at Grand Central in 10, right?_

__He replies with a thumbs up emoji and grabs his backpack.

“We’ll talk more later,” Tony says, Morgan giving him a hug around the legs before he dashes for the elevator.

X

“It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. Do you want to use that as our museum day?” MJ asks as they’re sitting on lounge chairs at John Jay, Uno cards in their hands. 

He puts down a blue six. “Can’t. May signed me up for this SAT class on Wednesday mornings.”

MJ makes a face and puts down a Wild. “Yellow. Despite the deep hatred I have toward the SAT in particular because of its history, I’m applying to Columbia and they require it, so I took the class Midtown offers last fall. It got me a decent score the first time around, but I might take it again to increase my chances. Where are you thinking of going?” she asks.

He goes to say Embry Riddle and MIT, but he’s frozen.

The college fair comes rushing back to him, his stomach suddenly uneasy.

He doesn’t know where he’s applying. Tony and May haven’t brought it up since the day he went to his first support group meeting.

His future is essentially…blank.

Peter knows that’s not actually true, that he’s in a better position than many, could skip college and work for Tony, possibly take over when it’s time for him to retire, but he’s been looking forward to After High School since forever and he doesn’t want to give that up just because of everything that’s happened in the last few months.

He’s still not sure he’s completely over not being able to fly. He’s not sure he’ll ever be.

“Oh, shit, the pilot thing. From group. That’s… _this_ , isn’t it? Fuck.”

“Y-yeah. Kind of.”

“That’s really shitty, Peter. I’m sorry. It’s different when you’re diagnosed younger, you know? I don’t really remember much from before. I can’t imagine what this has been like for you.”

Peter’s surprised to hear the last bit, because MJ’s the only person he’s felt remotely connected to since this started. He puts down a yellow two.

“We’ll just have to find something else, come up with a new plan.” She adds a yellow five to the pile.

“Plan B,” Peter says, whipping out a reverse card and then a yellow eight.

MJ pulls her lips inward and thinks. “I mean, Plan B could suck big time, but it could also be something great. Maybe there’ll even be a Plan C and Plan D.” The thought terrifies Peter, his eyes widening behind his sunglasses until MJ adds, “You’re smart. I know you’ll figure out your way to make your mark on the world with something you’re really passionate about.”

“You getting all cliché on me?” he teases.

“Contrary to popular belief, I _do_ have a compassionate side,” she retorts, changing the color to green with a Wild. “I just don’t always share it because I’m not really a people person. I like to study them, sure. Analyze them. But interact with them?” She makes a face and Peter laughs. “I guess socializing is my weakness.”

“Now who’s self-deprecating?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. She playfully hits him on the shoulder. 

Peter puts down a green five. “So, let me guess, future psych major?”

She shrugs. “Depends on where I get in. If I get in.”

“You’re getting in, MJ,” he assures her as he goes through his cards. “Columbia would be stupid not to take you.”

She looks up at him and gives a small smile. “Thanks. I really want to go to Boston University, though. They just started this Center for Antiracist Research and I was thinking maybe I could find a way to link that with all of my interests by the time I graduate. I’m really into psych and linguistics, but I also want to do something with international relations and social justice. I know what I want, but I’m not sure it exists yet? Or if it ever will? Every time I try and explain it to my parents, they tell me they don’t understand what I’m talking about. So maybe I’m being ridiculous thinking I can pull all of that off.”

“I think it makes perfect sense. If anyone can figure out how to connect those things, it’s definitely you.”

She puts down a green two and calls, “Uno!” which Peter is thankful for because it’s starting to get too hot to sit baking like they are. They clean the game up, Peter unclipping his pump and placing it in the small cooler bag May bought for him. He slides in the little clip to close off his pump site from the pool water and stands up. When he takes his shirt off, he’s suddenly conscious that his pump and Dexcom sites are visible, but MJ’s wearing her Omnipod without a care in the world, and it gives him the confidence boost he needs to follow her to the pool without a second thought.

“How’s Friday for the museum, then?” she asks as they wade into the shallow end. “Oh, and you mentioned bringing Morgan in your texts, which is totally fine. I’m pretty good with kids, just not…like…people our age.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “She can be a bit of a handful sometimes.”

“Positive.”

He tells her a little about Morgan, how she likes dinosaurs and Disney princesses, how she follows him around sometimes like she’s his little shadow.

“I bet you fight like siblings,” MJ jokes, but Peter smiles, takes it as a compliment, and follows her into the deep end.

X

“Please tell me you saved the transmitter,” Tony says to a sunburnt Peter upon his return home without a Dexcom on his arm hours later. It had fallen off in the pool while they were swimming and Peter had taken the opportunity to give himself a short and much-needed break.

“Yes,” Peter assures him, digging the gray plastic piece out of the small pocket of his backpack and handing it over. “I know how expensive they are. I was responsible about it. See?”

“Why didn’t you put a new one on?” Tony sounds irritated, but also like he’s trying to hide it, and Peter’s not sure how to keep this conversation from becoming the argument that’s brewing.

“Because I was gross from sunblock and I was afraid it wouldn’t stick,” he tries to explain calmly. “And MJ does fingersticks because Dexcom is too expensive, so we both just kind of…did that.” He shrugs. “You wanted me to fingerstick anyway, so I didn’t really see the point in doing both.”

“May and I haven’t had Dex numbers since noon,” he argues, running his fingers through his hair. “Without it, you can’t run the Control-IQ update on your pump for your basal. And then you didn’t get back to us until an hour ago, even though we’ve been calling and texting. We have rules for a reason, Peter! You know you’re supposed to update us after you fingerstick!”

“The rule is that I have to text you if I fingerstick and I’m out of range, but I wasn’t! And I didn’t call or text back because you guys are always so overbearing! I can handle this myself! I did today! And I get to decide if I want to take a Dex break or not because it’s my body!” His voice is rising. “You know what? I had a really good diabetes day, like probably the _best_ day since I was diagnosed, and you just _ruined it_ completely!” he yells, storming off.

“You never used to be like this!” Tony calls out, following him.

“Oh, you mean before I got sick?” Peter asks as he whips back around. “Before my life got turned _completely_ upside down?” Tears stream down his face. “You talk to me all of the time about how you know what I’m going through and then you just expect me to think and act exactly like you! But maybe I’m not you, Tony! Maybe I don’t want to be attached to devices 24/7! Maybe I want to have some choice in all of this when I barely get to choose anything! Maybe I want to figure out how to do this and be okay with it in my own ways!”

Tony takes a few steps forward, but Peter slams his bedroom door right in his face.

And then there’s silence.

Tony realizes a moment too late that he just did the exact opposite of what he’s been learning in his parent support group.

Kid first, diabetes second.

He hasn’t told Peter about the group yet, is afraid it’ll somehow keep him from going to his own support group even though he seems to like it well enough. He desperately wants Peter to find his own ways of managing the physical and mental components of this complicated disease, wants him to find some kind of peace in the uncertainty that comes with having a chronic illness, be that a support group or something else. He just wants him to be okay, whatever that really means.

And yet, he’d taken Peter out of the equation _completely_ today, was too concerned with tech and numbers to focus on how well the kid had done all on his own.

Peter had been safe, with someone who knew diabetes better, probably, than both of them, and instead of asking Peter how his day had been, he’d focused solely on diabetes.

He’d forgotten about _Peter_.

Peter, who stays up with Morgan when she can’t sleep. Who promises her trips to museums and the park or hours of weekend cartoons when he could be doing literally anything else. Peter, who helps him design a renewable energy source to fuel NASA voyages to Mars, who has a brain and heart that Tony knows surpasses that of his own.

Peter.

_How could he have forgotten about him?_

He holds the gray transmitter for Peter’s Dexcom in his hand, rubs his thumb against the warp speed decal, and reminds himself how far the kid has come in such a short time.

Tony’s been doing this whole reactor-in-my-chest thing for more than a decade now, got to experience so much before it even happened, and Peter…

Peter’s only four months into this mess that no one saw coming.

He tries to bring himself back to high school, wonders how it might’ve felt if everything Peter was going through, everything he’d gone through in Afghanistan and with Thanos, had happened to him at that age instead.

It changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comment Guidelines:  
>  1\. DLDR/C. Don’t like, don’t read/comment.  
> 2\. Unkind comments and/or profane language will be deleted.  
> 3\. I am not seeking critiques at this time.**
> 
> For those who want a more comprehensive overview of the diabetes vocabulary, you can refer to this document I created: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JzW8NzTnv9rkL9SpkiS8FX5Xn--Pu9I2jH1P1TKjv-Y/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> If you'd like me to add any other terms to the document, please leave it in the comments.
> 
> Just curious: What specific things do you like about this story so far?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the kudos and comments! HDAnalyst helped me immensely with this chapter. :D

Peter places a Dexcom sensor, alcohol prep swab, and new transmitter on the kitchen island as Tony takes a seat. They’d had a long conversation the evening prior after they’d both calmed down, with Tony appearing at Peter’s door to apologize and admit that in his effort to keep Peter as safe as possible, he’d forgotten what was most important. He’d invited Peter to come up with some reasonable amendments to his rules, discussed how Peter felt about his devices and being reliant on technology. It hadn’t been an easy conversation, nor a quick one, but he’d let Peter do as much of the talking as possible, let him set the tone and pace.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Peter offers, giving Tony the opportunity to back out.

“I promised. I don’t back out of promises.” He lifts the sleeve on his left arm.

“What made you want to do this, anyway?” Peter asks, curious.

“That day in the kitchen, before your support group, you said that May and I don’t know what any of this feels like and therefore we couldn’t understand. I thought you had a point and it stuck with me. And then when we fought about Dex, I realized that it wouldn’t hurt to put myself in your shoes for a little bit.”

Peter smiles. “Thanks.”

“Anything for you, Underoos. That’s why I came up with so many stupid rules in the first place.”

Peter laughs, wipes Tony’s skin with the alcohol swab. As it dries, he rips the Dexcom packaging open and peels the protective papers off of the bottom of the sensor applicator. With a steady hand, he presses it securely against Tony’s skin. “I’m sorry if this part hurts.”

“Bruce said it’s supposed to be nearly painless.”

Peter gives a small laugh and rolls his eyes. “Bruce has never had to wear one of these. Sometimes it’s fine, but most times, it stings for a bit. Let me know if it feels like I hit a nerve or muscle or something.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Tony comments just as Peter flicks the failsafe off and presses down on the button. The sensor releases from the applicator.

“Jesus Christ!” Tony yelps, nearly jumping off of the chair as the needle inserts the wire. He’s holding his elbow in his right hand, shoulders up and body stiff as his face twists in pain. “That fucking hurt!”

“Shoot, it’s bleeding a bit,” Peter notes, trying to get a good look at it. “Stop moving for a second.”

Tony tries to comply, looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. “Okay, I think it’s getting better. Like, definitely a 7/10 right now instead of a 9/10.”

“No need to be a baby about it,” Peter chides.

“I bet you loved every second of that,” Tony jokes back.

“Kind of. Except the part where I actually hurt you.” Peter inserts the transmitter, waits for the two clicks to be sure that it’s secure. “I’m sorry it was painful. And that it bled.”

“I’m sorry I kept telling you it’s not supposed to hurt, kiddo. That was…” he trails, exhaling. “It still _stings_.”

“It’ll probably go away tomorrow,” he says, shrugging as he takes Tony’s phone in his hand and starts the sensor. “You’ve got a two-hour warmup and then you’ll be up and running. I’m going to follow you on the Follow app. It’ll be nice to see someone else’s numbers for a change. Don’t be alarmed if you get some false lows in the first 24 hours.”

“I run on coffee and Dexcom alarms,” he jokes. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. A few more alarms won’t kill me.”

Peter collects the garbage from the counter and tosses it, puts the applicator into the sharps bin on the counter. When he turns around, Tony’s got his arms crossed and is smiling.

“What?” Peter asks, suspicious.

“I wanted to wait until this was done,” he says, motioning toward his Dexcom, “to give you the good news.”

Peter narrows his eyes at the mention of “good news.”

“We have a meeting at JPL in two weeks,” Tony announces.

“Wait…what?! JPL as in… _NASA_?!”

Tony chuckles. “Is there any other? They want to go over some specifics of the design in-person.”

“B-but it’s not my design. Not really. You mean that _you_ have a meeting, right?”

“ _We_ ,” Tony corrects, pointing to Peter and himself. “ _We_ have a meeting because it’s _ours_. As in being patented in _our_ names. Well, the element will be in my name, but the design itself is all yours, kiddo.”

“Are you crazy?!” Peter asks, incredulous. “Tony, no, y-you can’t just…put a propulsion system for NASA in my…in my _name_ …when you did so much of the w-work…”

“You’re the one that came up with the design for the shape. Without that, we’d still be back at the drawing board.”

“Tony,” Peter says, shaking his head. “Y-you have to put it in your name!”

“Too late,” he answers, shrugging.

Peter’s arms are around Tony in an awkward attempt at a hug before Tony can say anything.

“Thank you thank you thank you,” Peter says, hugging him tighter, and Tony feels his arms embrace the kid, his lips curving into a genuine smile. He knows how much this means to Peter after all of his hard work. “I can’t believe you did that!”

Tony gives a squeeze. “You deserve it. And you’re my favorite intern, so…”

“I’m your only intern,” Peter throws back, laughing as he pulls away. He takes a deep, fulfilling breath and runs a hand through his hair. “This is really happening,” he says in disbelief. “ _We have a meeting at NASA_!”

Tony nods, ruffles Peter’s hair. “And lots to do before then.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Peter says, feeling a rush of energy run through him. “When do you wanna go over everything?”

“How’s now sound?”

“Perfect!” Peter says, Tony placing a hand on his back, the two of them gloating over the ingenuity of their design on the way down to the lab.

X

“You have to promise you’ll hold my hand, okay?” Peter says, taking Morgan’s in his, because losing her on this day trip is _not an option_. She has a tendency to wander, and while he knows that Pepper and Tony used a leash on her at Disney when she was three because it’s in the pictures on the wall in the living room, he doesn’t want to be seen walking around with a five-year-old leash child at the Museum of Natural History.

“I wanna hold MJ’s hand, too,” she whines, grabbing MJ’s with her free hand. 

Peter gives Morgan a look, but MJ shrugs. “It’s fine.”

Peter presses with “You remember what Daddy said?”

“That I have to listen to _everything_ you and MJ say,” Morgan repeats, looking unenthused. “And that I can only press the button on my watch if there’s an _emergency_.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s ‘emergency’ mean?”

“It means,” MJ says sweetly, “that something’s wrong and you need people to help you.”

“Like when Petey needs a juice box?”

She smiles, knowingly. “Sort of. There’s all different kinds of emergencies,” MJ explains. “Some are small, like when you need a band-aid, and others are big, like when someone needs a doctor.”

“He said don’t press it unless I’m scared, but I’m never scared, so I’m not gonna press it!” she explains, triumphant.

“Mo, you get scared during _Aladdin_ ,” Peter reminds her.

“No, I don’t!”

“Yes, you do! You watched it the other night and then you came crawling into my bed at like, two in the morning crying about Jafar!

“’Cause I didn’t know if Mommy and Daddy were home yet!” 

“Wow, you two really do argue like siblings,” MJ says with a laugh. 

They swing Morgan between them so that she can avoid the cracks in the sidewalk, MJ smiling as she playfully sings, “Step on a crack and you’ll break your mother’s back…” followed by a string of rapid-fire questions from Morgan and a child-friendly explanation of what a superstition is from MJ where she promises that stepping on a crack won’t, in fact, break Pepper’s back, leading into a continuation of the swinging, only now it’s to the tune of “Baby Shark.”

They’ve walked the few avenues to avoid a subway transfer, and Peter hates that he’s suddenly thinking about his blood sugar, because walking makes him drop and they’ve been swinging Morgan between them and did he bolus too much for breakfast even though it’s the same thing he always eats, and maybe he’s sensitive to insulin today, because it’s hot and a Friday and a full moon and sometimes he’s sensitive and…

He glances at his watch on his left wrist, sees 137, and exhales.

“Peter,” Morgan says, pulling on his hand as she and MJ move toward the subway entrance at Port Authority. “Come on!”

X

MJ reaches for Peter’s hand while they’re staring up at the giant blue whale model hanging from the ceiling of the Hall of Ocean Life. Morgan’s running in circles beneath it, jumping as if she’ll be able to reach it.

“Is this okay?” MJ asks.

“More than okay,” Peter says, blushing.

“I used to think that it was a real whale,” MJ says, laughing at herself, and Peter likes that about MJ. That she can say something random and laugh at herself, doesn’t need Peter to laugh back.

“I actually thought the same thing,” Peter replies, his eyes darting down to check on Morgan. She’s lying flat on her back like a starfish now, making invisible snow angels as she lies beneath the whale.

“I used to do that too,” MJ adds. “Not the snow angels. Just…laying beneath the whale. My dad used to tell me-”

“That if you stared long enough, you’d see it move?”

“Yeah,” MJ says, surprised that Peter has a similar memory.

“I think it was just Ben trying to shut me up for a little while,” Peter says with a laugh. “If you couldn’t tell, I was a bit of a chatterbox.”

She turns to him. “So, you were quite loquacious, then?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “SAT words again?”

“Just trying to get you on my level,” she jokes.

“Hey!”

She laughs. “I’m joking, Parker.”

“Ben used to take me here a lot when May was working.”

MJ leans into Peter, puts her chin on his shoulder. “You’ve brought him up a few times, but I’ve been afraid to ask what happened.”

“I’m not really…ready yet. To talk about it. This just makes me miss him, is all. It’s okay. I’m…okay.” He gives a small smile. “I’m glad that I get to show Morgan all of my favorite exhibits. It brings me back to the good memories.”

“I’m all about the good memories,” she reiterates, smiling as Morgan stands up and starts running and jumping again.

X

“What’s that thing on your arm?” Morgan asks MJ as they’re grabbing lunch in the museum food court. She’s pointing at the small white box peeking out beneath the sleeve of MJ’s t-shirt. Her Omnipod.

“Morgan!” Peter chastises, pulling a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the display for her. “You can’t just ask people stuff like that!”

“It’s fine,” MJ says, laughing. “I’d rather people ask than stare.” She turns her arm and gets down on Morgan’s level. “This is my insulin pump. It different from Peter’s, but it can do the same things.”

“Baymax!” Morgan announces happily when she sees the design, a pair of eyes that MJ’s drawn in Sharpie, up close. “He’s from our favorite movie, right Petey?”

A smile spreads across his face. “Yeah, Mo.”

“Do you need a lot of juice boxes, too?” Morgan bites her lip, nervously rubs her ankle with her sneaker. It’s innocent, not intrusive, but Peter worries it seems so. He stiffens. 

“Only sometimes,” MJ responds, smiling softly.

“Emergencies,” Morgan recalls from earlier.

“Exactly. Small emergencies. But we’re all okay right now, right Peter?” MJ looks up at him, Morgan following, and he knows, now, that MJ has picked up on Morgan’s anxiety about bad, scary things happening.

“Yup, we’re all perfectly fine,” he says with the most reassuring smile he can muster. “Let’s pick out what you want to drink, okay?”

As Morgan’s focused on the wall of milk and juice, Peter rubs the back of his head and whispers, “S-sorry, she’s seen a lot of my lows. I tend to get a little…”

“Hangry?” MJ jokes, but beneath her cool smile, Peter can tell that she knows _exactly_ what he’s getting at without him having to explain.

“Y-yeah.”

“What are you apologizing for, anyway?”

“Morgan? I-I don’t know.” He shrugs, lifts Morgan up so that she can pull the pink chocolate milk from the shelf herself.

“You’re really good with her.”

“Thanks,” he says, laughing nervously.

“She’s a smart cookie. And sweet.”

“You think that now,” Peter jokes. “Wait until we tire her out and she’s cranky.” They each grab a turkey sandwich, MJ a diet Coke and Peter a diet Snapple. After checking out, they find a table in the corner, Peter giving himself a bolus on his pump before setting up Morgan’s food.

X

They’re on line for the planetarium show when Peter asks, “Can I tell you a secret?”

MJ laughs. “Yes?”

“You can’t tell _anyone_.”

She narrows her eyes. “Who would I tell, Peter? My _friends_?”

“You have friends, MJ,” he says, laughing. “I had to ask because I don’t want it getting around.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Does Ned know?”

“Yeah, and Morgan, but only because they were there when I got the news.”

“Is this where you tell me you’re not _actually_ Peter Parker,” MJ jokes, and Peter has to hide his sudden panic that she might follow up with a question that leads to Spiderman.

“Petey, look!” Morgan yells, pointing at the display of planets hanging from the ceiling in the Rose Center. “Which one are you going to with your spaceship?” 

“You’re going to space?” MJ whispers, confused.

“No,” he corrects, rolling his eyes as the line moves forward. “Mo, I’m not going to space. We’ve been over this.” He leans in close to MJ and whispers, “I _designed_ something that’s going to space.”

“Like…with SpaceX?” MJ whispers back.

“Like with NASA.”

MJ whistles, her eyes going wide. “Impressive, Parker. I knew you were smart, but _damn_.”

He blushes. “Tony and I sort of have a meeting at JPL in a week and a half. The design…it’s gonna be patented in my name, which is really cool, a-and–”

“JPL?!”

“I know, right?!” he asks, so excited that he’s nearly bouncing as he walks. “Promise you won’t say anything?”

“Again, who am I gonna tell?” she jokes. “I’m happy for you, Peter. I know you love physics. I feel like it’s your…thing. Maybe this is part of your Plan B.”

Peter hands their tickets over to be scanned, letting MJ’s comment sink in.

Plan B.

Plan B has been this shitty diagnosis, Tony’s stupid rules, missing out on States and Nationals and forcing his team to as well. It’s been having to let flying go (for now, at least) and fighting with Tony about painful site changes and wearing tech.

But it’s also been time with MJ dancing in her room, swimming at John Jay, getting Starbucks and walking the city. It’s been the same old Saturday mornings with Morgan on the couch, albeit with a few changes, and more time with Tony in his lab. It’s been finishing their propulsion design. May and Happy’s wedding.

Plan B, Peter realizes, started long before that day at the college fair.

He’s been living it ever since that day in March when he woke up in MedBay.

The lights dim as the announcements start. He silences his pump, helps Morgan tilt her chair back so that she can better see the ceiling.

“I’m scared,” she whines, squeezing Peter’s hand as the ceiling illuminates, music swelling.

“We’re safe, Mo. Promise. You can hold my hand if you want, though. It’s like the View Master, but better. Let’s give it a few minutes and see what happens. If you really don’t like it, you can let me know and I’ll take you outside, okay?”

She nods, leaning against Peter as the colors and music swirl together. “And then we’ll see the dinosaurs?”

“Yup. Just like I promised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comment Guidelines:  
>  1\. DLDR/C. Don’t like, don’t read/comment.  
> 2\. Unkind comments and/or profane language will be deleted.  
> 3\. I am not seeking critiques at this time.**
> 
> For those who want a more comprehensive overview of the diabetes vocabulary, you can refer to this document I created: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JzW8NzTnv9rkL9SpkiS8FX5Xn--Pu9I2jH1P1TKjv-Y/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> If you'd like me to add any other terms to the document, please leave it in the comments.
> 
> Just curious: What specific things about this story have left you guessing?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I know it's been a while. Life has been a little crazy. I don't post on a schedule, never have, but I think the gap got people worried. I've only ever abandoned one fic and I announced it in a chapter, so don't fear. This story has not and will not be abandoned. I promise. So if I don't update as quickly as I sometimes do, it mostly means I'm dealing with my chronic illnesses, work, and/or my doctoral studies.

Their trip to California comes before Peter’s sure he’s ready.

Not that one could ever truly be ready to present and defend their work at NASA.

He’s done his best to keep his blood sugar from rollercoasting on the flight, after their rooftop celebratory dinner the night before at a beachfront restaurant in Malibu, and now, the morning of the meeting at JPL, but the nerves are getting to him and his blood sugar is running higher than he’d like it to be.

That, and he’s just dropped a full vial of unopened insulin on the kitchen floor of Tony’s Cali house, the glass now shattered and liquid pooling on the tile.

 _The sixth most expensive liquid in the world.  
_  
“Hey, slow down, kiddo,” Tony says softly, a hand on Peter’s arm. The smell of bandaids and alcohol wipes fills the room.

Peter bends down to reach for the shards of glass. “Shit! I-I’m sorry, I’m s-so nervous-”

“It happens,” Tony says, pulling Peter away from the mess and into a chair at the kitchen island. “FRIDAY, have the bots clean this up, please.”

“Of course, Sir,” she replies. Small, motorized bots that look like mini-Roombas fill the area, sucking up the glass and liquid, cleaning the area in seconds.

But all that Peter can see in his head as he watches Tony grab a new vial from the fridge is dollar signs. _$300 times two vials_ … _May would’ve never been able to afford this_ …

“Stop worrying about the price tag,” Tony says knowingly. “You’ll never have to worry about paying for your supplies, Peter. I’ve made sure of it. It was one of the first things May and I discussed after you were diagnosed.”

“But other people can’t always afford their insulin or supplies, so when things like this happen, I feel really awful.” He sighs, fiddles with the new cartridge they’re about to put into his pump. “I know that I cost you and May a lot of money.”

“Insulin affordability is a serious issue, and yes, _your supplies_ cost a lot of money, not you, kiddo. We’ll just be more careful next time. Accidents happen. Responsibility is important, but getting crazy about things we can’t control aren’t going to get us anywhere good.”

Tony said some version of that when Peter forgot to put his pump back on, but it hadn’t exactly made Peter feel any better about fucking up.

Because what if one day he makes a mistake he can’t quickly recover from?

Diabetes is the only disease he knows of where patients are making their own dosing decisions with a lifesaving but also potentially deadly medication multiple times a day.

Five months ago, he wouldn’t have been able to tell one unit of insulin from five, and now he’s expected to troubleshoot a myriad of complex situations and calculations with accuracy.

There’s still so much he doesn’t know about this disease yet.

“It wouldn’t have been an accident if I’d been paying better attention,” he chastises, nervously running his fingers through his hair. “I’m a little lost in my head today.”

“That’s to be expected. Not every day you get to meet at NASA,” Tony assures him.

“Sir, a Google search indicates that there are silicone vial protectors for purchase online,” FRIDAY interrupts. “Would you like me to complete a rush order?”

“That would be great, FRIDAY. Thanks,” Tony answers.

“Purchase complete.”

“I can’t tell if I smell like insulin now or if it’s just in my nose.” Peter covers his face, groans. “It’s throwing my Spidey senses off. I really really really hate this, Tony. I want a break _so badly_. Today was supposed to be a good day.” He can hear it in his own voice, how it’s cracking, how he’s close to tears even though what happened would probably seem small to someone who doesn’t understand, who doesn’t deal with this stupid disease every day. _$300 per vial_ … _Fuck_. He’s sure Tony doesn’t pay that, since they’ve got insurance, but still. Other people aren’t as lucky as he is, and he’s constantly reminded of this fact when he sees the bill that comes with every supply delivery. He’s crunched the numbers.

It doesn’t matter how rich Tony is. Money is money.

“Kid, look at me,” Tony says, sitting down in the chair to his left.

Peter shakes his head, holds the tears in with every fiber of his being and fingers pressed against his eyelids.

“These kinds of things are bound to happen. Like that night when you forgot to put your pump back on before bed. We can’t be perfect at this every single time. There’s more to life than diabetes, Peter, even though I know it doesn’t feel like that most days. Like today, you’re going to meet with execs at NASA and rock their socks off, diabetes and all.” Tony sounds triumphant, is trying to shift the tone of the morning’s events.

Peter just sniffles, holds his head in his hands. Tony keeps saying _we_ and it only reminds Peter of how lucky he truly is to be able to drop a full vial of insulin without worrying for about it for more than a few minutes _because_ of Tony. He’s spent his entire life worrying about things that he knows Tony has probably never thought twice about, because while May has always done her best, it hasn’t always been easy, especially not after Ben died. And while he doesn’t think about the _what ifs_ as much as he used to, as much as he _had to_ , he can’t help but harbor the guilt that he’s so damn lucky even though this sucks so freaking much.

Peter licks his lips. “You can say that because we don’t have to worry about supplies, Tony. Not…not everyone gets to pretend there’s more to life than diabetes,” Peter whispers. “Not as much as we can, anyway. Not when they don’t know how they’re going to pay for their next injection or a possible trip to the hospital.”

Tony nods, digesting what Peter’s saying. “You’re right. We are very lucky in that way, Underoos. Hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“After that night when I forgot to connect my pump, I just kept thinking, like, what if things were different and I wasn’t Spiderman, didn’t know you. What if I’d been diagnosed and didn’t have Dexcom or a pump. What if I’d fallen asleep without checking and had gone into DKA and May had to pay for a hospital stay in the ICU, or something worse had happened, and…it’s just got me thinking that not everyone gets to rely on Dexcom to wake them up and just reconnect their pump and go back to bed knowing they’ll come down. Like, what if that vial I dropped was my last one, was supposed to last me a bit, and there wasn’t enough in May’s account to cover a new one, or I didn’t have time before my meeting at NASA and it was my big break, a-and I had to go without my pump or injections for hours because this meeting was the one that could change everything, get me the insurance I needed?”

Tony goes to speak, but stops.

“I know that I’m impulsive and that sometimes I make stupid mistakes, but I also spend way too many hours thinking about these kinds of things because I feel like I have to plan ahead all of the time, just in case. I don’t want this to be anyone else’s burden if it doesn’t have to be and I hate when I’m the focus of everyone else’s attention. It’s just…I feel like I _have_ to worry about every little thing in order to make sure this kind of stuff doesn’t happen too often. It’s hard _not_ to worry about it, Tony. I know I have a safety net for my supplies in place, and I’m so thankful for that, but it’s sometimes hard to switch my anxiety about the future and everything to focusing on the present, you know?”

“Pete,” Tony says, sighing. “That’s a lot of anxiety for one person.”

“Tell me about it,” he huffs, wiping his eyes.

“You know you don’t have to do this all on your own.”

“One day I’m going to have to,” Peter says, shrugging.

“Site changes and ordering supplies, yes. Managing highs and lows and bolusing? Yes. The rest, though? That’s where your family comes in. And you’re not a burden, Peter. You could never be a burden to us. Do I hate diabetes? Of course. Do I get frustrated watching you get frustrated? Of course I do. But things happen whether we want them to or not. That’s what your family is here for.” 

“You guys already do so much for me.”

“And soon you’ll start taking on more of those responsibilities. You’re already doing solo pump site changes, which I know still freaks you out a bit. But after that site change at school you’ve been a pro. And the other night, when you needed a shot because your pump site was bent, you did that without thinking twice.”

“It’s not always that easy, Tony. I just…made myself not think about it and just…did it because I wasn’t feeling great and I knew I had to get it done.”

“Never said it would get easier. You’ll just get better at knowing yourself and your diabetes. I wish it did get easier.” Tony sighs. “You’ve been keeping all of this in and I wish you didn’t feel like you had to.”

“I didn’t realize I was doing it until just now.”

“Oh.”

“And I’m afraid that one day I’m going to be impulsive and fuck up really badly and you and May are not gonna be as…as understanding as you’ve been, and it…that also makes me really anxious.”

“I can be impulsive when I react. I know that, kiddo. I get so worried about you sometimes. It’s hard letting you go out and do this on your own sometimes because my own anxiety likes to kick in with the _what ifs_.”

“Turns out figuring out the emotional stuff is just as hard as the physical stuff,” Peter says with a small laugh.

Tony gives a small laugh back. “How about we do your site change after you shower?”

“I smell like insulin, don’t I?” Peter asks, cringing.

Tony nods, squeezes Peter’s shoulder. “We’ve got about an hour until the driver arrives. Think that’s enough time?”

“I’ll be quick,” he says, getting up.

“Oh, and Peter?”

He stops, turns to face Tony.

“There’s still more to life than diabetes. Especially today. Remember that.”

Peter rolls his eyes.

“I mean it, kiddo!” Tony says. “Today is all yours!”

“I know, I know. I’m gonna rock their socks off or whatever.” Peter smiles, sniffles, and wipes the last of his tears away.

“You’ve got this,” Tony says with a grin. “I am so fucking proud of you, Underoos, do you know that?”

Peter blushes, takes a deep breath. He needed to hear that.

It makes him think that maybe he can do this, this big, scary meeting today that he never thought would actually happen.

After all, he’s been doing a lot of big, scary things lately that he’d never thought he’d have to.

It feels weird, to be jumping so readily into the unknown. He’s always taken risks in missions, but never something like this.

He runs the meeting through his head in the shower, practices the speaking parts Tony’s reviewed with him. He knows this system inside and out, can answer any question Tony can. He has a feeling Tony is going to give him the floor, so to speak, to act as the lead engineer on the project.

He forces _I am so fucking proud of you, Underoos, do you know that?_ to repeat in his head, over and over, until he can’t convince himself it’s untrue. __  
  
x

Tony hopes that Peter’s shower would be a kind of hard reset after the dropped vial of insulin, but when Peter trudges into the kitchen to do his site change with his hair wet and curls wild, t-shirt untucked and dress shirt unbuttoned so that he can put a new site on his stomach, he realizes that he’s going to have to really pump the kid up to get him ready for this meeting. He doesn’t want to blame his lingering crankiness on his blood sugar levels, would rather chalk it up to nerves and jet lag, but he can tell this morning wasn’t exactly the strong start Peter needed, that it isn’t helping at all.

He watches from the corner of his eye as Peter does his own site change, notices that he barely hesitates when it comes time to insert the cannula. Tony exhales slowly, trying not to make a big deal of things, and makes himself a cup of coffee while Peter cleans everything up.

“Should I give a bolus to bring myself down?” Peter asks. “I’m like 260.”

“Your basal can handle it for now. Don’t wanna stack insulin since you had breakfast an hour ago and have you drop in the meeting. I’ll keep an eye on it while you’re presenting and we can handle it when the meeting is done.”

“I’m nervous, Tony,” Peter admits, running his fingers through his messy hair.

“I know, and that’s normal. But you’re gonna be great, kid. They’re going to love you.”

Peter goes to the bathroom to fix his hair, returns looking even more dejected than earlier.

“I can’t get the pump tubing right under my dress shirt,” Peter complains, pulling his tucked dress shirt out for the third time. The pump helps, it does, but Tony knows that it also makes wearing anything tucked a pain in the ass. “I think this and that broken vial are signs that I should stay here while you do the meeting. It’s not like they’re going to take me even remotely seriously.”

Tony shakes his head and fixes his tie. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“Can’t I just take it off for a few hours?” he begs, fingers ready to unclip the pump tubing from the site on his abdomen.

“Peter,” Tony warns gently.

“Well, that’s definitely a ‘no.’” He groans.

“Hey, I didn’t say ‘no,’ I just think we need to troubleshoot this out loud before you make a decision.”

Peter perks up at the idea that Tony’s going to let him decide.

“You’re already running high because you’re nervous. You’ve got your basal in the background. We don’t want you rising mid-meeting and stuck without a way to come down. Is this because you want a pump break, or because you don’t want them to see it?”

Peter pulls his lips inward and looks away.

“I’m not going to answer the question for you,” Tony says softly, even though he already knows Peter’s answer.

“It’s just,” Peter starts, sighing. “What if they remember me, somewhere down the line, since they partner with Cal Tech and it’s on my list of safety schools, and all they can picture in their head is the kid with the insulin pump? What if…what if they don’t want me because of that?”

Tony nods, trying to acknowledge Peter’s anxiety despite the urge to remind him about the ADA or Americans with Disabilities Act. It’s a strategy he’s learned in his caregiver group, the one he hasn’t mentioned to Peter yet. He doesn’t want him to take it the wrong way.

“I know it’s illegal for them to not consider me because of this,” Peter continues, “but if I can’t fly a plane, how are they supposed to hire me to oversee things flying _in space_. What if…this disqualifies me from that, too?”

“There are people with diabetes who work at NASA, Underoos.”

“I highly doubt that,” he says, giving a small, sad huff. Tony can tell that he’s on the verge of tears, shoulders slumped, the bottom his dress shirt rumpled from so many failed attempts at tucking it in. “There’s no way you could know that for sure.”

“There is, actually,” Tony states, pulling his phone out from the pocket of his dress pants. He unlocks it and scrolls until he finds what he’s looking for, turning the phone toward Peter.

It’s a post on Instagram. The same pump Peter has takes up most of the frame, and in the background is a yellow blur of letters that read Mission Control Center above screens detailing the International Space Station’s health and trajectory.

The post from @nerdyapril reads, “It’s been a hot minute since I posted a picture of my #pancreas in #missioncontrol. Don’t worry, I still have #type1diabetes and I still fly @iss from my console @nasa.”

“S-she works at NASA.” It comes out as a comment rather than a question. Tony’s surprised the kid’s so quiet about it, wonders briefly if maybe Peter’s still processing the idea that this is even possible. He’d expected an onslaught of eagerness, questions, and pondering, but Peter stands unmoving, staring blankly at Tony’s phone.

A second later, Peter’s eyes flit up to Tony’s, full of surprise. “Holy shit, she flies _the_ _International Space Station_?!”

Tony laughs, because _that_ , right there, is the response he was waiting for, knew Peter would have.

“I have to follow her!” Peter says, taking his phone out. “This is _so coo_ l!”

“What if we tuck the tubing through a hole between two buttons?” Tony offers as a solution, but mostly, it’s an attempt to get Peter to keep his pump attached.

“Do you think if I take a picture with my pump in front of the NASA sign, with their permission of course, ‘cause it’s NASA and all, and tag her, she’ll respond?!” There’s hope on Peter’s face, along with a sweet, energized smile, and Tony realizes he’s missed seeing this side of Peter.

Things have been so serious since Peter’s diagnosis and Tony knows that it’s shifted their relationship enough be noticeable. It’s stolen a bit of Peter’s hope. 

Tony doesn’t even care that Peter’s ignored his question about the tubing, just smiles back and ruffles Peter’s hair. “Yeah, kiddo, I think she’d get a real kick out of it.”

X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comment Guidelines:  
>  1\. DLDR/C. Don’t like, don’t read/comment.  
> 2\. Unkind comments and/or profane language will be deleted.  
> 3\. I am not seeking critiques at this time. ******
> 
> **  
> **For those who want a more comprehensive overview of the diabetes vocabulary, you can refer to this document I created: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JzW8NzTnv9rkL9SpkiS8FX5Xn--Pu9I2jH1P1TKjv-Y/edit?usp=sharing**  
> **
> 
> **  
> **If you'd like me to add any other terms to the document, please leave it in the comments.**  
> **
> 
> ****  
> **We're at about the 40,000 word mark (of 100,000). Long fic, I know. But that means more IronDad! :) What kinds of things do you anticipate happening in the next 60,000 words? Best guesses!**  
> 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. I'm sorry for the month-long hiatus. I don't have a writing schedule, but even so, I've been a little busy and lost the last few weeks, which kept me from working on anything creative. This chapter is a little rough, but it was all I could come up with to bridge together what I have written next. I hope it will do.

“Sorry it’s so late,” Peter says when MJ picks up the phone. It’s nearly one in the morning New York time, but she made him promise to call him when he got home from JPL.

“It’s okay,” she says, yawning. “I mean, my boyfriend works at NASA now, so…”

“Boyfriend, huh?” Peter asks, laughing softly.

“Is that okay?”

“Uh, more than okay,” Peter assures her. It comes out shaky, his heart suddenly racing. “A-as long as you’re okay with it.”

“Of course it is, Loser,” she jokes. “I’m the one who said it first.”

He thinks he hears another yawn, but isn’t sure. “Did I wake you?” She doesn’t answer right away, which makes him feel a sudden pang of guilt. “I woke you up when I called, didn’t I?”

She gives an audible yawn this time. “Maybe?”

He sighs, embarrassed. “I should let you sleep, MJ. Shouldn’t have called so late.”

“I _asked_ you to call,” she says, voice much more awake and direct. “Because I want to hear all about NASA. All of the unclassified stuff, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.” He puts his phone on speaker and runs his hands through his hair as he leans back against the pillows on his guest bed. “It was…”

“Exhilarating?”

“More like… _overwhelming_ ,” Peter jokes. “Tony introduced us and the framework of the design, but then he kind of pulled back and had me detail everything for the team. Speaking to a room of engineers is _not_ easy. I’m not even sure they could understand a word I was saying. My mouth got so dry that my tongue was, like, sticking to the roof of my mouth, and I had to keep drinking those little glasses of water they put out on the table. By the end, the table was filled. And I was sweating through my dress shirt, so I couldn’t even take my suit jacket off until we got back into the car. I guess I don’t do that well under pressure.”

“Hey, you’re charismatic and genuine, which is important. No one likes to feel like they’re sitting through a sales pitch. I’m sure they were just as nervous as you were.”

He shrugs. “I mean, they were impressed, and we finalized the contracts, so I guess that’s good news.”

“So then, it was good? Overall?”

“Honestly? It was like…a dream. A good dream.”

“Plan B,” MJ adds.

Peter gives a small laugh. “Yeah. I guess Plan B isn’t sucking so much after all, though I still feel like this could’ve been part of Plan A, you know?”

“Doesn’t make what you did today any less important or meaningful.”

“True,” he echoes, sighing. “I guess I just had a weird morning, and I was kind of terrified it was a bad omen or something.”

“Weird morning?”

“I…I dropped a vial of insulin on the floor before breakfast.”

“Oof.”

Peter sighs, rubbing his face. “Yeah.”

“Does Tony know?”

“Yeah, and he wasn’t even mad, which I guess I expected because money isn’t an issue for him. But all _I_ could think about was how May wouldn’t be able to afford all of this. I wouldn’t have a pump or Dexcom. I’d be doing finger pricks and shots. Which…sometimes I wish I could ditch the technology and just do that, but…I don’t know. Sometimes I get really scared, even with the tech. It’s kind of saved me a few times. I hate that it has, but I’m also really thankful. It’s hard to explain. I’m…I’m not making any sense…”

“It makes a lot of sense, Peter. It’s just not something other people really have to think about is all.”

“No, it’s not. But I’m glad I got that out, because it’s been chewing me up all day. I still feel really awful about it.” His pump flashes a reminder that the battery is dying, which prompts him to grab a charger from his backpack. He rolls onto his side to plug the pump into an outlet on the nightstand. “Enough about me. What’d you do today?”

“Cleaned out my closet. Mom’s on a cleaning kick lately. Found a pair of rollerblades I forgot I have. When you get home, we should take on the city. Maybe we could take Morgan out for the day.”

Peter smiles. “Sounds good.”

“Oh, and I found a really great art exhibit that I think you’d like. It’s near Chelsea Market.”

“Art?” He makes a face she can’t see.

“Trust me. You’ll see what I mean when we get there.”

“Okay,” he says, laughing. “I trust you.”

“So,” she says, yawning. “What else do you have going on tonight?”

“Just…charging my pancreas.”

She gives the most MJ huff imaginable, and Peter feels that familiar flutter fill his chest. He loves everything about her, from the way she looks at the world to her one-of-a-kind reactions to the things he says. Being with MJ, even just talking with her, makes him feel like a different version of himself.

They just…fit.

He’s never really fit with anyone before, at least not with anyone except Ned.

“You crack me up, Parker,” she says, letting out a snort that has Peter cracking up.

They chat until MJ falls asleep, Peter hanging up when he, too, can’t manage to keep his eyes open any longer.

x

Peter’s waiting on the corner of the 70th street exit for the Q when he feels someone collide with him from behind. Their arms wrap around his waist, a giggle giving their identity away.

It’s MJ.

“You couldn’t handle three whole days without me?” Peter teases, turning to face her. He can’t keep from grinning like an idiot, from pulling her close and giving her a tight hug and a kiss on her cheek.

Truth be told, he’s not exactly sure how to do this. He’s never had a girlfriend before, doesn’t want to do anything that makes her feel uncomfortable.

She’s got her hair up in a neat but fluffy bun, is wearing a floral skirt and shirt that says _evidence + ethics_ in script. Her hands move to her hips as she smirks. “You’re not gonna give me a real kiss?”

“I-I…” he stammers, MJ pulling him close again, their lips hovering inches from each other. 

“This okay?” she whispers. He can hear the nerves in her voice, knows now that she’s just as excited and terrified about all of this as he is. 

“MJ, this is 100% okay,” he whispers, his smile wide.

She kisses him slowly, pulls back after and laughs nervously. “I was excited to see you because I wanted to give you that. After the other night. You know, after we…decided to go out.”

Peter reaches for her hand, electricity shooting up his arm when hers connects with his, her fingers threading through his. He blushes as they start walking toward Children’s for their support group meeting. “Sorry, I’m so nervous right now. Y-you’re…amazing, MJ, and I’m just… _Peter_.”

MJ’s elbow brushes against his. “I make you nervous?”

“Y-yeah.”

“B-but in a good way,“ he explains.

“You make me nervous, too. _Because_ you’re Peter. Wouldn’t want you to be anyone else.”

“Sure,” he jokes with a laugh and a roll of his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” she presses playfully. “Theres gotta be _something_ you like about yourself.”

“Not really.”

She stops him on the sidewalk. “What’s this about? You don’t like who you are?”

He’s never been asked that before, at least not so directly.

Is he supposed to know who he is?

Does MJ know who _she_ is?

Does she like who she is?

 _Dumb question, Peter,_ he thinks. _Of course she does._

He shrugs, unsure of how to answer. He thought everyone their age thought of themselves this way.

A couple is about to pass them, so MJ pulls him gently over to the side against a building.

“Hey,” she’s saying softly, a hand on his shoulder. “You are amazing, too, Peter. The NASA stuff? You’re making history! _And_ you’re the only person on our decathlon team who can handle physics questions. You’re really great with Morgan. She looks up to you so much. And Tony would hang the freaking moon for you if you asked him to. I haven’t met May yet, but I already know that she’s proud of you. I don’t know how anybody _couldn’t_ be. I love that you’re ‘just Peter,’ though I’d argue the ‘just’ is unnecessary. There’s nothing boring about you.”

Peter bites his lip, looks away. He’s angry that her question has thrown him off and ruined the mood from a few minutes ago. She’s said some really sweet things about it, but it’s like they won’t stick, won’t solidify in his mind and make him feel good. Why does he keep getting like this, all moody when things are actually going well? 

There’s nothing actually _wrong_ , so why does he feel like his Spidey senses and emotions are always dialed up to 10?

“Did something happen in Cali?”

“No, Cali was perfect. Just forget it. I’m…being stupid.” He signals that they should start walking again, watches her hesitate before she follows him.

“You couldn’t be stupid if you tried, Peter.”

Except he _does_ do stupid things. Like forget to connect his pump after a shower. And load the dishwasher when he’s promised Pepper. And drop $300 vials of insulin on tile floors in a rush. His impulsivity used to impact minor things, like forgetting to get a test signed or taking chicken out of the freezer to defrost, but now it’s diabetes stuff and the consequences are different.

One stupid move and he feels like shit for hours.

He doesn’t get to be on autopilot anymore and make mistakes. It’s exhausting.

He _could_ bring this up in group, how he also feels like he’s not allowed to mess up even though Tony and May have been mostly supportive about his fuck ups.

 _Mostly_ being the key word.

There was the broken pump fiasco and the fight about Dexcom. And his A1C. May was hiding her concern after Peter’s last appointment, probably thought Peter couldn’t tell, but his Spidey senses react to tone and body language and he knows her too well.

It’s not helpful.

He _could_ bring all of this up in group. Well, all of it except for the Spiderman stuff, but he won’t. He’s going to keep his mouth shut like he promised himself last meeting.

“If it’s on your mind later, you can share it with me. If you want,” MJ offers, squeezing his hand.

“Thanks,” he says, squeezing back.

X

When everyone’s put on their name tags and found their seats, Joyce puts a website link and code up on the projection screen in the conference room. “Don’t put your names. Just an answer. Be as honest or as vague as you’d like. If you want to type a litany, go for it. One word is fine, too.”

Peter pulls his phone out and puts the information into his web app. A question pops up on his screen.

 _What’s been on your mind?  
_  
Everything.

Everything is on Peter’s mind.

He’s sure that if FRIDAY could read his mind this past week alone, she’d have a full-length novel of just diabetes-related thoughts.

 _180 extra decisions a day._  
  
Can you be grateful _and_ angry at the same time, Peter wonders? Is that a thing? It feels like it doesn’t make sense, so he scraps it and types _I feel like I’m not allowed to make mistakes anymore_. It’s the truth. That, and Joyce promised they didn’t have to put their names on their submissions.

He’s half keeping his promise to keep quiet this meeting, arguing with himself that he’s not actually _speaking_ so it’s fine.

The projection screen comes alive with anonymous responses.

“I started posting my site changes on TikTok because it makes me happy. I guess I’ve made it on peoples’ For You Page which is good because they ask questions and I can educate them. It’s more for me than anyone else. When I need a break I just delete the app for a bit. Sometimes social media gets a little overwhelming.”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“When I complain, my parents get all _it could be worse_ and then I just feel worse. I don’t think they know how to help so they just throw _be positive_ at me. What does that phrase even mean? Can someone tell me because I’m hella confused.”

“I’ve always believed everything happens for a reason and it’s taken me a while but I’m really thankful for the journey diabetes has put me on. I’ve learned a lot about myself. I know this really sucks sometimes, but I don’t find it that hard most days and I guess I just don’t always understand why other people are so devastated by it? It makes it really hard to be in diabetes group sometimes. I’ve found a little niche on Insta where other teens post about their diabetes. I mostly follow accounts where their perspective aligns with mine, so I’m not completely alone, but it’s still kind of lonely.”

“Missed my diahomies. It’s good to be back.”

“I keep having these moments where I realize that other people don’t inject themselves multiple times a day with something that could kill them if they take too little or too much. Most days, I just do this on autopilot, but then it just hits me that people go their entire lives not having to do _any_ of this and it feels really unfair.”

“I turned Dexcom Share off so my parents can’t see my numbers and I feel like I can finally breathe.”

“You ever just like do your diabetes things while you’re frustrated and angry? Like you know you have to do it, so you override the emotional stuff because it has to get done? I think that’s taking a toll on me. My friends are just like _take a break then_ , but I can’t just take a break. I laughed at one of them when they said that and then they got mad at me, which made me look angry and so now they think I’m just like angry about diabetes which I am but…it’s not that simple? That’s what makes this really hard sometimes. Having to be numb to do the things when you don’t want to do them or not getting to act angry or upset when you are. I’m scared that my friends will think I’m depressed when I’m just being honest about what this is like for me.”

“I know that people at school won’t understand if they find out and I think that’s why I’ve been keeping it to myself. I feel like two completely different people sometimes.”

“I’m in a good place right now and I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Anyone else feeling like _yeetus the diabeetus_ lately?”

Peter covers a laugh when he reads the last one. He thinks back to the night he came home low after patrol, when Tony commented that Morgan’s berry juice had less sugar in it and Peter had responded with, “Wouldn’t want her to get diabetes.” He remembers Tony frowning, how he’d chastised Peter for _going there_ even though Peter thought it was hilarious. It wouldn’t have been funny at all if it had come from someone who wasn’t diabetic but he likes that there’s someone else here who uses humor to laugh about this shitty disease.

“An eclectic collection of responses,” Joyce comments.

“I second the yeetus the diabeetus one,” a guy across the room says. Peter can’t make out his name tag, since there are a lot more people here this time, but he smiles anyway.

“Facts,” Marcos adds, laughing.

As people start to discuss some of the other responses, Joyce moderating, Peter finds himself wondering which one is MJs.

That, along with what happened on their way to group, is on his mind when the meeting ends. He rips his name tag off as they enter the elevator and feels relief. He likes the group, he does, but it’s still…new. Awkward. Emotionally overwhelming at times.

The way they discuss things at group is such a stark difference from the way it’s discussed at home.

“Starbucks?” MJ asks when they’re outside, even though they’re already walking toward it.

Peter nods.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go for it.”

“Do you only go to group because I’m there?”

“I mean,” he starts, licking his lips as he tries to pull his thoughts together. “I like that you’re there, obviously, because I really like you, but I’ve also been going because sometimes it’s the only place where I feel like people get it without me having to say anything. Don’t get me wrong, Joyce is a lot to handle and I’m not a fan of some of the people there. Some of the discussions are overwhelming sometimes. But I just like…being there?”

“You don’t really say much, is all. I figured maybe you felt like I was forcing you and I didn’t want it to feel like that.”

Peter shrugs. “I don’t know, group’s a weird subject for me. I think it’s because May and Tony had that ultimatum and I’m still not completely sure how I feel about everything. I’m like a giant ball of anxiety about diabetes still and I’m slowly unraveling it as best I can.”

“I can understand that.”

“I think when I’m honest about how I feel about everything, I’m better at figuring it out,” he admits. “Even if it doesn’t make everyone else around me feel better.”

“Tony’s still giving you a hard time? I thought you guys talked after that day at the pool.”

“That’s the thing,” Peter says, sighing. “He hasn’t been angry or anything, but he can be so… _over the top_ sometimes. Like, him and May have my Dexcom numbers 24/7, which means they can see what I see on my pump in real-time. They don’t yell when I’m high but they text me relentlessly asking me if I bolused and I just _know_ they’re upset. I hate feeling like I’m failing when I’m doing the best I can. And I know it’s because they’re worried, but it doesn’t matter. Sometimes the anxiety of going high is enough to make me want to turn off Dex Share so they can’t see any of my numbers and I don’t have to feel as bad about it.”

“Have you done it?”

“No. But sometimes I want to so badly. Just for a break. Even though I know I’ll get in trouble. That probably makes zero sense-“

“It makes a lot of sense, Peter. You want control, or rather, to feel in control. Sometimes we burn out. Dexcom was getting too expensive, but I also wanted a break. The constant numbers and arrows started giving me really bad anxiety. And then I’d start thinking there were good and bad numbers and that those numbers defined me as a person, even though I knew they didn’t. I get it, Peter. This shit is complicated and confusing, but your feelings about it are real and valid.”

He reaches for her hand and squeezes it, thankful that someone else gets it. It doesn’t fix everything, and it doesn’t make it all magically feel better, but it helps.

After they order their food and drinks at Starbucks, Peter unclips his pump to bolus, frowning when he sees the screen. “Sensor error. I’m so fucking sick of this shit,” he whispers. “I’m literally ready to rip my Dexcom off and just be done with it forever.” As if on cue, a text from Tony comes through about him having no Dexcom data. Peter replies, knowing that if he doesn’t explain, he’ll have to deal with Tony later. “ _It says it should be back up within the next three hours_ ,” Peter texts.

“Do you have your meter?” MJ asks, just as Tony texts Peter the exact same thing.

“No, and Tony’s gonna end up yelling at me about that, too. He’s always on me about having backup everything and I just…” he trails with his phone in his hand, realizing his voice is rising and that people are looking over at him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to MJ, holding back sudden tears. “I’m just really frustrated right now.”

“It’s okay, I have extra lancets,” she says, digging through her backpack. “You can use my meter.” She hands her kit over and Peter takes it. “There’s alcohol wipes inside.”

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “I’m gonna go use the bathroom.”

“I’ll grab our food and drinks and meet you outside, okay? Take your time.”

Peter’s gone for longer than he expects to be, but he’s happy that she doesn’t comment on it when he comes outside. He unzips her backpack to put her kit back and pulls their snacks out while MJ holds their drinks.

“Did you want to walk to the park?” she finally asks, and Peter just nods because he’s on the verge of crying after Tony’s barrage of texts about him not having his meter and he’s not sure _why_ he’s reacting to this so badly. His blood sugar was 98 when he checked and he’s already bolused for the Starbucks. As they walk, he thinks about how things are completely fine, and yet… “Peter?”

“Hmm?” he manages, realizing that they’ve reached the park. It means they’ve walked for blocks in silence, Peter lost in his head and emotions. She doesn’t seem angry about it, but he feels kind of guilty. Today is their first day together since they’ve agreed to start going out, and he knows he’s ruining it.

“I know you’re not okay and it’s alright if you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m also happy to listen.”

“I’m…I…I don’t know,” he says quietly, tears streaming down his face as he stops on the sidewalk. He uses his arm to wipe his tears away, but they return. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s not a big deal. What happened isn’t even a big deal. One second I’m okay and then the next I-I can’t stop fucking _crying_ about e-everything…”

He hates that he’s having a breakdown just outside of Central Park in front of his girlfriend and everyone else milling about but he doesn’t know how to make it _stop_. His breath is coming in short pants and he can’t get himself to sit on the curb or put down the ice cold drink in his hand. He’s frozen, eyes squeezed shut because he doesn’t want this to be happening, doesn’t understand _why_ this keeps happening when nothing is even wrong…

Peter can feel that time has passed, is stuck in a daze when he opens his eyes and sees MJ looking back at him. They’re on a bench in the park, covered by the shade of some trees. He doesn’t remember walking here, sitting down. “Hey,” she says, her fingertips brushing his hand. “You back with me?”

“MJ, I’m so sorry, I-I…I completely…”

“You went low. You were awake but out of it. That’s probably why you got so upset before. Your body knew you were dropping. I got you to drink your drink, but you fought me a little. Do you want to test?”

With a shaky hand, he reaches for his drink and takes a sip, realizes a moment later that he’s bolused but forgotten about his snack. That, and they’ve walked a few blocks to get here. “Shit. How long has it been since we left Starbucks?” He feels tears pricking again, finds the cake pop he ordered from his backpack and shoves the whole thing into his mouth, forcing himself to chew. “This is really embarrassing,” he says, mouth full.

“You’re not embarrassing me,” she assures him as she goes through her backpack. “We go low. It happens. You must be really sensitive to the heat and exercise. Some people are.”

“This is not how I wanted today to go,” he says, taking MJ’s kit and going through the motions of testing. He’s glad MJ has individual lancets. They’re kind of cute, if a lancet could even be considered cute. The meter beeps. 67 appears.

“We’ll sit for a bit, wait for you to come up.”

Peter sighs. “I feel like shit.”

“Do you want me to call Happy? See if he can-”

“No! Tony can _not_ know about this!” Peter argues. “I’ll be okay, I just need to sit. I just…need to not have to worry about what Tony is going to say.” He puts his head in his hands. “This is…so embarrassing. I can’t believe I cried like that…in front of you…”

“I don’t care that you cried in front of me, Peter. I really don’t.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re MJ and you’re the absolute best and you’re trying to be nice to me.”

“This is not just me being nice. I’m being honest with you. Why don’t you believe me when I say that?”

He can hear in her voice how she’s getting slightly irritated, is trying to hide it just like Tony does. It doesn’t help that he’s still low and coming up, irritated and feeling gross because his face is wet with tears.

“I should go,” Peter says, grabbing his backpack. Everything is too much, feels too heavy, like it might suffocate him if he doesn’t get away from it all.

“What? No, Peter, you’re-“

“I’m fine, MJ!” he yells, turning to face her. “I don’t need you to babysit me!”

“I’m not babysitting you! I’m trying to be a good friend and you’re being a complete asshole right now! I’ve been patient, Peter. And understanding. But all you’ve done today is yell at me and tell me that I’m lying to you even though I’ve never lied to you! Is this because you’re low?”

“Wow. _Really_?”

“What?”

“I would think that _you_ of all people would know what a cheap shot that is!”

He goes to walk away because processing what she’s said hurts too much, is too true and he knows it, but she grabs his half-open backpack, which falls from his arm, the contents spilling out on the pavement.

They both kneel down, his hand going for the fabric of his Spidey suit before MJ’s can get there.

He’s too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comment Guidelines:  
>  1\. DLDR/C. Don’t like, don’t read/comment.  
> 2\. Unkind comments and/or profane language will be deleted.  
> 3\. I am not seeking critiques at this time.**
> 
> For those who want a more comprehensive overview of the diabetes vocabulary, you can refer to this document I created: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JzW8NzTnv9rkL9SpkiS8FX5Xn--Pu9I2jH1P1TKjv-Y/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> If you'd like me to add any other terms to the document, please leave it in the comments.
> 
> Just curious: What do you see happening in future chapters?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! 
> 
> The last few months have been so hard. I have been writing, but nothing was polished and ready to be posted. We are almost at the 50% mark of this story and I'm going to do my best to get it out, chapter-by-chapter, when I can.
> 
> Thank you for reading and sticking with me!

A week has passed.

MJ hasn’t sent one text, hasn’t liked or commented on any of his posts. Hasn’t even posted.

He _did_ run away after she saw his Spiderman suit, but who wouldn’t? It was a knee-jerk reaction, a moment of panic.

Peter hadn’t expected her to just _ghost him_ in return.

He scrolls through her Instagram, but can’t bring himself to ask her how she is. He assumes it’s fair to say that they’re both being stubborn about this.

Morgan climbs onto a stool at the kitchen island beside him and tugs on his t-shirt sleeve. “Petey, I wanna go to the park!”

“I can take you later, Mo.”

“I wanna see MJ, too! She’s good at playing dinosaurs!”

Peter sighs. “MJ isn’t coming.”

Tony looks up, surprised, then goes back to making breakfast, pretending not to notice.

She deflates a bit. “Why not?!”

“Morgan!” Pepper calls out. “Come make your bed before I throw all of your toys away!”

“Not my toys!” she yells, jumping off of the chair and scrambling out of the room.

Peter puts his phone down and stirs his Cheerios absentmindedly.

Tony faces him from across the kitchen island, a dish towel thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. “You gonna tell me what’s going on with your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Peter argues.

“Did you two break up?”

“We were barely even dating, so I wouldn’t exactly call it a breakup.”

“What’d you do, kid?” Tony jokes.

Peter holds his head in his hands. “That’s the thing! I don’t know what I did!”

“You sure about that?”

He goes back to his cereal, debates telling Tony the truth about MJ finding out his secret. On the one hand, he trusts her, even though they’re not talking, but on the other, he worries about SHIELD finding out and what that would mean for MJ.

“Is this about sex?”

“ _What_?! No!” Peter’s spoon falls to his bowl.

“If you’re not comfortable talking to May about it, I’d be happy-”

“I promise that this has nothing to do with sex, Tony!” Peter argues, squeezing his eyes closed as his cheeks redden.

“Come on, kiddo, we’ve all been there before. It starts with consent-”

“I understand consent! I don’t need the sex talk! This isn’t even about sex!” Peter is up and halfway out of the room when Morgan and Pepper enter the kitchen.

“Mommy, what’s sex?” Morgan asks, Pepper staring daggers at Tony as she covers Morgan’s ears.

X

“And then he was like _if you’re not comfortable talking to May about it_ , _I’d be happy to! It’s all about consent!_ And then Morgan was asking what sex is and I had to leave the room!”

Ned looks horrified. “Yikes on bikes. That’s…rough, man.”

“Yeah, and on top of that, MJ and I haven’t spoken in over a week, so…”

Ned’s been on a camping trip with his cousins, had spotty cell service. That, and Peter didn’t want to bother him. Not when he was hoping MJ would reach out.

Only that never happened.

“Dude, what did you do?!” Ned asks.

Peter relays every detail of what happened as they make some adjustments to his suit in Tony’s lab.

“I mean,” Ned starts, typing some code into his laptop. “Did you really expect her to reach out after that?”

Peter’s taken aback, lifts the tools in his hands away from his suit. “What do you mean?”

“Peter, from what you just told me, you were a hot mess express of emotion the entire day. You called her a liar and pushed her away. And then she saw your Spidey suit, wanted to have an honest talk about it, and you _ran_. I don’t really blame her for being hurt. You were kind of an asshole.”

“I was _not_ being an asshole!” Peter insists. “And I never called her a liar!”

“Did you apologize a thousand times?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I’m going to assume that’s a _yes_. You apologize profusely when you feel like you’re inconveniencing people _and_ when you know you’re being an asshole.”

“I was inconveniencing her, that’s why I apologized.”

“While also being an ass.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Did she outwardly call you an asshole?”

Peter doesn’t answer, just goes back to tinkering.

“Man, only you could finally get a girlfriend and lose her all in one day,” Ned says, chuckling.

“Not funny.”

“It’s hilarious!”

“I’m glad someone is enjoying this.” A spark flies from where one of his tools makes contact with a connection in his suit. “Fuck!”

“Take a break before you short-circuit yourself.”

He sighs, throws the tools down. “Do you think she’ll text me? Eventually?”

“Well, she can’t avoid you forever. Not with school starting back up in three weeks.”

_Shit._ He hadn’t factored in having to see her at school, decathlon, _and_ support group.

Ned shrugs. “Maybe you need to just give her some space for now. Figure your own shit out, you know?”

“I don’t have shit to figure out,” he grumbles.

“Peter,” Ned says, turning his computer chair around. “I’m saying this as your best friend: You have to stop running from important conversations. It’s why you keep exploding on everyone.”

“What?! When have I ever run away from anything?! I’m usually running _toward it_ while everyone else is running!”

“That’s my point, Peter. You never used to be like this. Ever since you got sick, you’ve just been running away from everything.”

“Because this is hard, Ned! You have no idea what this has been like!”

“Because you won’t let me in, Peter! Look, you’re doing it right now! And you just did it to MJ, did it to Tony after everything-“

“Tony exploded on me first! And MJ kept prying, so I’m not exactly sure what she expected me to do!”

“So you admit that you exploded on her and treated her unfairly?”

Peter does not want to deal with this right now. Does not want to think about it, process it, swim in the murky pool of emotions bubbling beneath the surface.

Ned closes his laptop and stands up. “You invited me over because you wanted me to reassure you that your tiff with MJ wasn’t as big a deal as you know it is, that everything with your diabetes and Tony is fine when you know it’s not. I’m not going to stand here and lie to you, Peter. I’m your best friend. If anyone is supposed to tell you the truth, and give it to you as straight as possible, it’s me.”

“You’re jealous of me.”

It slips out despite the fact that Peter knows it’s not true.

Ned’s eyes a wide. “I’m _what_ now?”

“You’re just jealous that I have a girlfriend, that I work with NASA, that I’m an Avenger! You’ve _always_ been jealous!”

“Peter, I’m a lot of things, but I am _not_ jealous.”

He knows he should stop, but he finds himself continuing with, “You should leave.”

Ned grabs his laptop and heads for the elevator, turning only when the doors open. “And you should start dealing with your shit before you lose everyone.”

X

“Your birthday’s coming up,” Tony reminds him when they return from a false alarm mission.

Peter pulls his mask down and groans. “Don’t remind me.”

Tony’s out of his suit in seconds thanks to the nanobots. “Cannoli cake filling? Ice cream cake?”

“Neither. Don’t really wanna celebrate.” Peter deflates his suit and begins to pull it away.

“How about Funfetti?” Can’t go wrong with Funfetti.”

“It’s fine, Tony. I’d rather not do anything. It’s not like I have any friends to celebrate with anyway.”

Friends he pushed away. On purpose. He thought this would be easier, not having to worry about hiding how he’s really feeling from everyone, but it’s just been lonely in a way he wasn’t expecting. He’s spent the last few days playing games with Morgan and he’s not sure he can stand one more round of Pretty Pretty Princess.

“You’ve got family,” Tony reasons. “Family who will be _very_ upset if there’s no cake on someone’s birthday.” There’s sarcasm in his voice, and Peter knows he’s just trying to cheer him up, but the situation is way beyond that by now.

He shrugs. “Then buy a cake and eat it without me.”

Tony sighs. “Underoos. Come on. It’s-”

“I promised Morgan I’d take her to the park when we got back,” he interjects, monotone, suit limp over his arm as he goes for the elevator.

“Kid, don’t walk away from me.” Tony’s voice shifts, grows sterner. “You can’t just keep walking away when things get hard!”

_Maybe Ned was right_ , Peter thinks. _I keep walking away from everything I don’t want to face._

He knows it just makes everything harder in the end, that maybe everything that’s been happening _is_ his fault, but he’s so numb. So tired. Feeling so guilty and like a burden that he just can’t fathom processing any of it.

So he keeps on walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Comment Guidelines:  
>  1\. DLDR/C. Don’t like, don’t read/comment.  
> 2\. Unkind comments and/or profane language will be deleted.  
> 3\. I am not seeking critiques at this time. **
> 
> For those who want a more comprehensive overview of the diabetes vocabulary, you can refer to this document I created: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JzW8NzTnv9rkL9SpkiS8FX5Xn--Pu9I2jH1P1TKjv-Y/edit?usp=sharing
> 
> If you'd like me to add any other terms to the document, please leave it in the comments.
> 
> Just curious: We are almost at the Midpoint. What big event do you foresee taking place?


End file.
